Wrongfully Accused
by CarrieAnnB
Summary: Reid is found dead in his basement at his apartment. It appears to be suicide, but JJ and Morgan particularly refuse to believe it was suicide. They work together, with the help of Diana Reid, to prove that theory wrong.
1. Chapter One

**WARNING: **This story is dark. If you cannot handle or simply prefer not to read dark stories that involve conversations of death, suicide, or depression/grief, you should skip this story entirely. You've been warned.

**Author's note: **It is written in JJ's perspective.

* * *

Blood trickled down from the cuff of his shirt onto the floor. I stepped closer, though I felt like any minute my knees were going to buckle at the sight of his blood. Though I knew what I was seeing, it wasn't registering, if that makes any sense. It was definitely blood. A pool of dark red blood forming beneath his turned-over body, but it didn't actually entirely occur to me. It was like something else was going on in my head. Someone else was controlling me. It's a good thing, honestly; If it were me controlling me then, I don't think I would've been able to get any closer. I would've just fell to my knees and cried or threw up or both.

I crouched down before him, being very unaware of my trembling hand as I touched his arm. Freezing cold. I whipped my hand back, horrified, then tried to catch my breath. _It's just cold down here,_ I told myself. I kept telling myself that repeatedly as I forcefully rolled him over on his back to get a better view of his injuries. He didn't fight me on it, he just laid there, eyes closed, body stiff and cold. Wrists bloody and still oozing it. I tried to run backwards, but I was still in crouch-position, and instead tumbled back, my eyes widened so wide they burned and teared and my ankle became sore from laying on it funny. Once again, I wasn't really grasping what I was seeing.

I just stared at him. Lifeless and cold. His blood was different than stranger's blood. His blood scared me so much I couldn't look at it any longer. My stomach cramped up and felt like it was curling and twisting, just tightening around my abdomen. I put my hands on the cold floor, instantly cooling them, and then rested on my shaking knees. I tried to inhale, but instead vomit rose up my throat and came pouring out uncontrollably, and soon I was vomiting my entire day's diet.

My forehead began sweating and sweat trickled down my eyes, making it hard to see. I crawled back over to him and took his hand in mine, which was now drenched in his blood. I had to cup my hand over my mouth to keep from puking on him. I couldn't focus on anything but, _Don't puke on him. Don't puke on him._

I just sat there, completely unmoved, feeling very far away and distant and like at any minute I might faint. My body feels weak and I think I might vomit again, but only dry-heaves come up. I pretty much puked myself out all in one sitting. I crawl on my hands and knees over to the basement stairs, and grab my purse, which I laid on the last step. I lean against it and attempt to dial 911, but I'm so shaken I keep hitting the wrong buttons. I can't even think I'm so rattled. I decide to call Hotch instead. He's on speed dial, it's much easier.

"Hello?" Hotch spoke into the phone. "JJ?"

My throat's sore and dry from throwing up. I feel like asking him to bring water. Then I realize how incredibly selfish and horrible and disgusting that is of me, but for some reason, the guilt doesn't hit me either. "You need to come here. Now." I speak very gently, my words shaky like my hands.

"Come where?" Hotch sighs, trying to get through to me. "Where are you, JJ? What happened?"

I can't stop shaking, I feel like I'm freezing. "I'm at..." I have to keep swallowing. I need something to drink. I look over at him, and I can't stop watching him. I'm partly afraid he'll jump up, but I'm really hoping he does. I know he won't. "I'm at Reid's. Reid's apartment,"

"Something happened to Reid?" he asks, as softly as possible. I can just barely make out the sounds of concerned voices in the background. My heart aches for Morgan. Then Garcia. Then Prentiss. Then Rossi. Like slideshows, I picture each and every one of them gathering around Hotch's phone to get the latest info on Reid. He's so loved.

I nod.

"JJ?" he asks about two seconds later.

I realize I didn't actually respond. "Yes, something happened." I clarify. It takes me a while to realize I haven't blinked.

"What happened?" Hotch nearly screams into the phone. Just then, the voice changes, and Morgan's taken over the line. "JJ, what's wrong with Reid?" Morgan practically demands.

"He's -" I can't find the words. I can't say them out-loud. "He's injured."

Morgan sighs. "How bad is it? Your at his apartment?"

I nod again. "Yes. Just hurry."

Morgan agrees to come, with the ambulance in tow, and I just sit there, clutching my phone. I can't explain why I didn't tell them the truth on the phone. Why I made it so sound little, like a broken bone. I crawled over to him and stroked his hair back, tears actually forming in my eyes. But I couldn't cry. Not in front of him. I felt like he was watching. And Reid wouldn't have wanted me to cry for me.

* * *

I just sit there staring at him, for however long it takes for the team and the ambulance to get here. Morgan pulled in before the ambulance had a chance to, storming in like he was about to jump an UnSub, calling out his name nervously in each and every one room. I still sat at the very end of the staircase, just staring. I didn't have the strength to call Morgan down. Morgan was smart though, and found us pretty quickly. He saw me sitting there, and instantly he flushed a pale color. "JJ?" He asked, sounding very shaken himself.

I lifted my hand and lazily pointed to Reid, my eyes still staring directly forward. I was seeing Reid dead, but when I looked at him, I didn't see death. I saw his familiar long hair, his soft lips, his cardigan sweaters and weird pointy boots. I just see Reid, just a darker version. Morgan very slowly goes down the stairs. He must know. He was in such a hurry before he saw me, now he's dreading the walk down the staircase. He peers from there, his hand still on the railing, and once he spots Reid, he almost trips over me running over to him. He falls down to him and grabs his face in his hands, slapping it gently, screaming at him like if he yells loud enough he'll just wake up.

I want to tell him it's over. To stop wasting his time, to stop yelling at poor Reid. That Reid's not in there anymore. But this sight breaks my heart so much I curl my knees up to my chin and hug them, crying again. Except I'm still not crying for Reid. I'm crying for Morgan. Morgan's voice became shaky as the ambulance screams in, and I can hear his front door swinging open upstairs and hitting the other side of the wall. I crawl over to Morgan, putting my arms around him, trying to pull him away. He refuses to let go.

"Reid, wake up." he whispers, a tear falling.

"He's gone," I say out-loud. I hate myself for admitting it. Hotch soon shoots down the stairs, then Prentiss and Rossi, their footsteps loud and heavy on the staircase. They all bump into each other once they spot Reid. Morgan falls and just sits beside me, and Hotch and the rest of them don't get any closer. I looked up. I'll never, ever forget the looks I saw on their faces. Prentiss looked like she herself was about to upchuck. Rossi, for the first time I can ever recall, looked truly tragedy-stricken. Something flashed in Hotch's eyes, sadness beyond what I can explain. Maybe it was him giving up, I don't know. I imagine there comes a time when you see so much death you just stop caring.

Soon men, strange men I do not know come running down with a bunch of equipment. "That him?" one man asks. Hotch nodded and stepped aside.

I want to jump up and yell at the guy for asking such a dumb question. _No, sir, that's not the man we called about. Though he is the only person in the room bleeding and showing any physical pain whatsoever...huh._

Morgan and I just sit there; my arms still wrapped around him like I need to keep him tamed. They check Reid's pulse, check for breaths, check for heartbeat. Nothing. I closed my eyes and imagined a different reality, where Reid suddenly starts coughing and he comes back to life, and we're so overcome by joy we all jump up and maul him and yell at him for giving us such a scare. Morgan will slap his back and say, "Thanks a lot, Pretty Boy, I almost cried in front of JJ."

But when I open my eyes, Morgan left me and is now gone. And they're just scooping up Reid, like he's nothing now.

* * *

The police ask all of us questions like we're suddenly a part of his death. At first it irritates me to no end, like they're intentionally doing this. I can tell it's pissing Morgan off just as much. Hotch, Rossi and Prentiss however remain calm, though I can see when Prentiss returns from the bathroom, her make-up is smeared and she was crying in the short time she was in there. Hotch's eyes also look remarkably bloodshot.

"Why are you interrogating us?" I heard Morgan shout from the other side of the apartment complex's front lawn. "We didn't do this. We just found him. Instead of you guys investigating innocent people, why don't you get off your asses and find the man truly responsible for this?"

I look angrily at the man interrogating me and nod in Morgan's direction, to silently say I agree with him. The man sighs and lowers his pen and pad. "Ma'am," for some reason, the way he calls me 'Ma'am' just infuriates me that much more. "We understand how difficult this is for you. We're not blaming you. We just need to know this," he sighs and stares at me hard. I want to look away, like a big spotlight's been cast on me. "You should know this better than anyone. Your job, you must deal with plenty of people in this exact same situation."

"Sir," I hear the man reply to Morgan's comment behind me. I'm not listening to the guy asking me questions anymore, I'm just hearing Morgan's guy talking. "We're not saying anybody did this just yet."

"Excuse me?" Morgan said through gritted teeth.

"Well, the way Dr. Reid," he looks at Morgan quizzically. "His name is Dr. Reid, correct?"

Morgan looks incredibly appalled by this. "Yes," he responded sharply. "You can't even remember his goddamn name?" Hotch scurried over and touched Morgan's shoulder, trying to calm him.

"I'm sorry, sir, my apologies."

Morgan nods at him like he's about to kick his ass.

"The way Dr. Reid died..." the man looked at Hotch right then like he's supposed to help him along. Hotch just looks down, and lets the guy take care of this. I walk over to them, completely ditching the guy talking to me. I hear him calling out for me, but I keep walking until I'm directly beside Morgan.

"Well, it's possible it was suicide."

Hotch's, Morgan's and my jaw drops and we're so taken aback - which shouldn't be that surprising if you think about it - we're just shaking our heads rapidly.

"No, sir, you don't understand," Hotch cuts in. "Reid would never have done this."

Morgan nods furiously. "You don't know him," Morgan stops himself and looks like he's about to punch someone, and I'm almost scared he might hit me, but recovers and keeps talking. "You _didn't_ know him, I mean. He wouldn't have ever done this, Hotch is right."

The guy nods like he understands, but really, I can tell, he's thinking we're in denial. His sympathetic nod only enrages me, and suddenly I find myself wishing Morgan would punch him.

The guy shoves his pen in his pocket and nods at us. "This'll be all for now. I wish you guys the best of luck." he says halfheartedly as he walks over to consult the other detectives.

Morgan's still fumed, I can tell. "What an asshole." he mutters, loudly, so they could hear him. They did, I can tell. I'm glad.

"Morgan, calm down," Hotch scolds him.

Morgan whips around. "Calm down? Hotch, he just said Reid committed suicide!"

Hotch nods at him. "I get why you're so upset, but can you blame the guy? The way Reid died -"

"No way," Morgan shakes his head, suddenly not so frustrated anymore, but extremely overwhelmed and taken over by hurt. It's like it totally embodied him. "Are you saying," he shakes his head again in disbelief. "No way."

Hotch raises his hand. "I'm not saying I think he did it, of course not." Hotch sighs and looks down. "I'm just saying any coroner would beg to differ."

"Screw coroners! They don't know the people before the death. They don't know anything but how the death happened. They never figure out why or how who they were." His words make sense, but I quietly agree with Hotch on one thing. Freaking out isn't going to do us any good.

Hotch sighs, giving up. He walks over to Prentiss, probably figuring he'd have better luck comforting her.

"God, I can't believe this shit." Morgan says, shaking his head.

I touch his arm. "Reid didn't commit suicide," I say, the first full sentence I can actually say since I found him dead. "I'm positive of it."

"Of course he didn't." Morgan agreed. He looked over at Hotch, sighing. "Do you think Hotch really believes that?"

"I think it's easy to doubt it, considering the," I almost say it, but the words feel so ugly I choke on them. _Slit wrists. _I keep hearing them in my head, like my head is tormenting me.

Morgan shakes his head sternly. "Not if you knew Reid."

I nod in agreement. He's right. Reid just wouldn't do this. Not like this. Maybe, _maybe, _if he absolutely had to end his life, he'd at the _very_ least leave a note of some kind addressed to those closest to him, like us and his mother. Maybe even to his father. Hell, maybe even to Gideon. He wouldn't go so silently, in his basement, cutting his wrists. Reid kind of has a phobia with needles, if I recall the time we had to get a flu shot together. Nothing of this made sense.


	2. Chapter Two

The next couple of days just drag on like a bad movie, where you find yourself glancing at the clock every few minutes, feeling like when you look at it it's going to say three hours passed since the last time you looked, but really it's only been about six minutes. Strauss suggested that we all get a break, a week-long break. I bet she wished it was under better circumstances, like she had to suspend each and every one of us. I don't really remember even hearing her say she's sorry for our loss when she called all of us in individually. I think, if I heard right, Rossi wrote her off by cussing at her, but maybe that's just hearsay. I remember hoping he did.

I kept having dreams, night after night, of Reid's mother being approached by people from the hospital, people who may have looked like strangers to her, depending on her state of mind at the moment. Maybe she was having a good day the day they told her. Maybe she was even thinking, _I'm doing better today._ The next thought is hard to think, I feel a lump rise in my throat it feels like a big apple is down there. _Reid would be proud. _I wonder how they told her. Did they ask her to sit down? Did they smile those fake nice smiles before breaking the heartbreaking news? Did she cry? Did she scream? Did she even know where she was? Did they give her something for the pain? I wish I knew. Strangely, I find myself wishing I could have told her. Or anyone from the team, for that matter. Reid would've wanted it that way. Not done by strangers in scrubs who couldn't care any less about who Reid is. Or was.

I want to call and find out how she's doing. Tell her I understand how it feels to lose someone that special. Someone that irreplaceable. I sit at the kitchen table at my place, not knowing what to do with myself. His funeral is tomorrow. I wish I could sleep through tomorrow entirely. I wish I could wake up in the summer, completely flying over Fall and Halloween and Thanksgiving, where there will be one empty chair at the big dinner table. I want to fly over Winter and Christmas, where there will be one less Christmas invitation to send out and a lot less presents delivered. I want to wake up in June, where everything is sunny and everything seems happier. Maybe I can sleep through the grieving stages.

Will approaches me, and puts his arm around me. I force a smile, but I can tell he sees it's fake and not remotely how I feel.

"Someone called today about Reid's funeral," he whispers to me, almost inaudibly. This must be what's been on his mind all day today. I noticed he kept pacing back and forth, following me room to room, opening and closing his mouth every few minutes, then walking off for a brief time, then returning. I was going to ask, but I just didn't.

"Hm." I say.

"Are you going to go?" I can tell he's trying to ask me as nicely as possible. He squeezes my arm harder, like he's trying to put strength into my body. "I think you should."

"Hm." I say again.

"Are you going to at least consider it?" he stares at me, sad.

I barely nod. "I'll consider it." I say. He nods and kisses the side of my face, then leaves me alone. I don't have to consider it. I know I have to go. But I like knowing I have the option _not_ to go.

* * *

The funeral is just horrible. I don't mean it harshly, because it actually looks as nice as a funeral's going to look. It's just horrible because everything's black and dark, and I'm tired of seeing dark things. When I get there, I'm surprised there's so many people. I thought Reid was kind of anti-social and awkward. My heart stops when I see his mother, accompanied by two doctors who are helping her out of the car. I try not to cry, but it's incredibly difficult. I reach for a napkin and dab my eyes like something's in them. Garcia comes over to me, a dark lacy veil over her eyes. She sniffles and wraps herself around me. She begins sobbing into my shoulder. I pat her back and hug her, but it occurs to me that I myself haven't actually cried over Reid's death. I've cried for Morgan, for Garcia, for Hotch when he touched Reid's empty chair, for Rossi when I saw him drinking an extra amount of something strong in his office, and for Prentiss when I heard her crying on the phone to her mom. But never for Reid. It's like I just can't.

"I miss him so much." Garcia says, sniffling and inhaling between each word. I can barely make out what she's saying, it's just coming out all squished together. "Iwonderhowithappened."

I pretend I heard what she said and smile at her, then she walks over to Prentiss and sobs next to her. Prentiss cries with her. The sight breaks my heart and it becomes so heavy and full with hurt, like it's being doused in the tears I'm forgetting to cry for Reid, it actually physically aches for a moment.

I make my way over to Morgan, who's just standing by himself, his arms folded, his mind obviously elsewhere.

"I hate funerals," he mutters when he sees me coming toward him. "They're so ugly."

I nod. "I agree. The food sucks, too." That's actually not true. The funeral is actually nicely put-together, if you actually bother looking. There's photos of Reid as a kid placed at random places, and I can't look at them. There's one of him where he looks about nine, standing above a bicycle. In his hand is a big novel of some kind. Of course. I actually find myself smiling at that one. The rest I just glance over, like they're not really there. Like I said, I can't look at them. I can't look him in the eye, not even in a photograph.

The plates and silverware placed around are, thankfully, not black. They're white, actually. Morgan's still standing there, while everyone gathers under the place, taking their seats at the table. Everyone but me and Morgan. And Reid's mother, whose over by the pond, throwing something at the ducks.

I nudge Morgan. "Should we?" I motion to Reid's mother.

Morgan looks at her, then at the sky, then nods and soon, we're walking over to her. I think about what a bad idea it is as we walk down the hill.

She turns around, notices us, then turns back to the ducks. "Ms. Reid," Morgan says. He clears his throat. She doesn't move.

"Diana?" I say softly, reaching forward. I almost touch her arm, but I'm afraid to. I get this weird vision that she's going to turn into dust if I touch her. It's a very odd thought, and I think I need to eat or sleep.

"The pond is so nice today," she says calmly, like we're just having small-talk at a park. I look at Morgan. "The ducks seem hungry."

Morgan shifts awkwardly, but we still stand behind her. I picture strange people in scrubs standing before her just like this when they told her about her son, and I have to sit down. I sit down beside her. I can see she's feeding the ducks bread. She hands me a slice, and I smile at her. "Thank you." I say.

Morgan sits on the other side of her, and she hands him one too. Soon we're tearing off pieces of bread and tossing it to the ducks, who seem to really love it. I wonder why I've never done this before. It's very relaxing. It suddenly seems like nothing else in the world is happening. Just this.

She smiles at the ducks. I wonder if Diana is really here. If she took her medication. I'm assuming she did, or else the doctors wouldn't have let her come. "How are you feeling?" Morgan finally asks. I admire him for having the balls to ask that.

She shrugs one shoulder, then smiles at a duck again. At first I was misled by her smiling, but now I see it's a very sad smile. Like it's just a layer ontop of very unhappy emotions. "I'm doing okay," she says simply. "And yourself?"

Morgan smiles a little, obviously being charmed by her. "I've been better."

"How about you?" she doesn't look at me, but I know she's talking to me.

I shrug a little, then tear off a piece of crust and toss it in the pond lazily. "Same as Morgan. I've been better." I try to smile at her, maybe it'll make her feel better, but I can't. It feels too wrong.

She smiles though, another very sad smile. "He loved you guys," she says, still staring at the ducks like she's speaking directly to them. "He talked about you guys all the time. I mean, really. You guys were his family, when I and his father couldn't be."

My heart aches so bad, I'm afraid it might crack. I hear voices in the distance behind us three, and I realize people are still gathered underneath the big tented area, getting their meals on their plates, communicating with people separated in groups. We're just over here, like we weren't invited in. I wonder if anyone noticed we're gone.

Morgan can't look up at her, and I understand why. She finishes off the last of the bread and wipes her hands together, as crumbs fall off her hands. "That's that." she says, and something about the way she says it, sounds so final like the end of a book. "It's over." I think she's referring to the feeding of the ducks, but something tells me that's not all she's talking about.

She stands up and heads over to the area, then turns around and looks at us. "You coming?"

We both look at each other, and realize we kind of have to, and decide to follow her to the eating area. There's so many questions I want to ask her. I suddenly want to know Reid better than ever. What he was like in high school - though I can imagine - what he was like in his teens. What he was like to live with. But I can't ask that, and it depresses me.

"He didn't do it, you know," she says, halfway to our destination.

"What?" Morgan asks softly.

"He didn't do it." she repeats, louder this time.

I feel a shivering feeling run up my entire body, and I get what she's talking about. I glance at Morgan, who just nods at her sincerely. I can see he's touching her hand. "We know that." he says honestly.

Something about the way he says that seems to calm her, and when she smiles, she actually looks relieved. I can only imagine how she feels. Being faced with the possibility that your child ended his life intentionally, deliberately wanting to be dead. She probably blames herself. I want to hug her and say it's not her fault, but I also can't do that. So I just sit at the table next to her and Morgan, our table separated from everyone else's.

* * *

The preacher stood above Reid's casket solemnly, reciting scriptures from the Bible. Everyone's hands are clasped together, all gathered around, heads lowered. Every now and then you'll hear a sniffle or a whimper somewhere around us, and I think it might be Garcia. I'm standing next to Diana, who's standing next to Morgan. Morgan is holding her hand. I catch a look at her, but only briefly. I'm afraid to look any longer than that. Her eyes are watering, but she's not showing any actual tears. Maybe she's afraid to start crying. Maybe if she starts, she won't stop. Maybe that's what I'm afraid of.

The preacher closes the Bible and sighs, then motions to Hotch. "A good friend of Spencer's, someone Spencer worked with and respected very much. If you'd please join me up here, Agent Hotchner."

My head shoots straight up when I hear him call Hotch up. Hotch nods his head softly and walks up like it's his duty. It brings me back to Hayley's funeral. I wonder if Hotch is thinking it too. Hotch nods at the preacher and thanks him, then lifts his head to us, careful not to look too hard at the pile of dirt covering Reid and his dark brown casket. "Spencer was an amazing FBI agent," Hotch begins, swallowing hard before continuing. I can tell he's nervous. He's holding his hands together like they're shaking. Maybe they are. I'm surprised he's so nervous; he always does profiles in front of people. But I guess this is different.

"There's really no words to describe Spencer," he pauses, looks down, and actually smirks a little. "I'm sorry, I have to call him Reid. We've always referred to him by his last name, it's just out of habit." he nods, waiting for someone to chime in like it's not allowed, then goes on. "He was indescribably intelligent; anyone whose spoken two or three words to him knows that. He knew everything about anything and he loved talking about just that." A few people laugh a little, and Hotch breaks a smile. Though I know it's wrong, this makes me feel better, like a weight's been lifted. It's good to smile. It's good to think positive thoughts about him. Since I saw him dead, all I've thought about is him lying there. Bloody wrists. Then all I think is if whether or not it was suicide. I'm certain it wasn't, I mean, how could it be? But it's so easy to doubt it. I reach for Diana's other hand and slip mine through it, and she glances up quickly, smiling at me for a split second, then stares back down, frowning.

"He loved his job. His job was something he never grew tired of. We all admired him for that. There's something about Reid that I think people never really understood. I myself didn't entirely believe it up until past experiences that really tested him. Reid was strong." Hotch's voice cracks then and he stops at a halt to swallow. I think he's about to stop altogether, but somehow he manages to proceed. "He stuck it out through the toughest of times and everything he went through, he truly went through alone." I furrow my eyebrows at him quizzically. Where's he going with this? "I'm not saying it in a negative way, he just never wanted to burden anyone with his problems. He would've walked to the end of the earth to save someone, anyone. And he's done just about everything but that to save someone in the past."

I picture everything flashing by me, reminding me of all the things he went through and how alone he must have felt. My knees feel weak and wobbly at the thought, like the weight that had been lifted earlier was dropped on me, this time with an extra fifty pounds attached. I picture Reid getting tortured. Us, with Gideon and not Rossi, watching it on video. Reid was bloody then too. Reid looked scared to death. I can't help but think, was that how he looked when whoever did this killed him? I feel queasy now, and I actually think I might throw up. But I just close my eyes and concentrate hard on Hotch's speech. Though it's not helping. At all.

I open my eyes about a minute later, and catch a look at Diana from the corner of my eye. She looks sickly. Pale and sickly. I don't blame her. I touch her arm reassuringly. It feels like she's not really there, just her body is. I know I have to get her away from all of this.

I nudge her arm and she looks up, her eyes bloodshot and watery. She looks like she's a painting dripping down a page. "Let's go somewhere." I whisper to her, careful not to have anyone overhear.

She stares at me funny, then nods and starts turning around to head back. I nudge Morgan's arm next. I nudge my head in the backward direction. "Let's go." I mouth to him.

"Where are we going?" he mouths back.

I don't answer, I just kind of smile, following Diana back up toward the parking lot. Morgan just stands there, considering it, then decides to follow us. I can hear the preacher calling for Diana's speech after Hotch finishes, but we just keep walking. I'm hoping she doesn't hear, but I see a tear fall and slam hard on the pavement, and I know she has.

* * *

Morgan drove Diana and I us around town, trying to decide where we should go next. My head's pressed up against the passenger seat's window. The windows are fogged up, and I'm scribbling messy hearts and lazy stars on it as Morgan grasps for any form of conversation. I'm actually impressed by how Morgan's holding it together in front of Reid's mom. I really want to hug him, and remind myself to do that later.

"He didn't make it." Diana says suddenly from the backseat.

I pop my head up and stretch to look in the rearview mirror. "What was that?" I ask nicely.

"Spencer's father. He wasn't there." she says quietly.

I glance at Morgan, whose staring at the road hard. I can see this is pissing Morgan off.

"He wasn't?" I ask dumbly. Truthfully, I hadn't noticed or bothered looking.

She shakes her head sadly. "I figured he would have came, or at least called."

Morgan looks even angrier now, like he's about to bash something in. I want to say something comforting, but I can't think of anything. That's just cold. Heartless, even.

"That's cold." I blurt out.

Morgan nods super-fast. "Heartless, even." he says through a tightened jaw. I guess he agrees with me.

Diana nods. "He doesn't know who he's missed out on all of these years," Diana sounds like she's about to begin crying, but amazingly, she doesn't. The fact that I can tell it's damn near killing her not to, breaks my heart. "I'm sorry for all the time I've missed with him."

My heart actually _does_ break a little, and I feel like any minute I'm about to burst out in tears. It reminds me of watching a really sad movie, where your lips start quivering and your desperately trying not to cry, but everytime a person in the movie says something, you just feel the lump grow thicker and it's harder to keep from crying.

"Where are we going?" I ask Morgan, hoping he'll ignore the fact that my voice is kind of squeaky-sounding and it's obvious I'm on the verge of bawling.

"I'm taking Diana back to the hospital," he says it tentatively. "The doctor said you should be back soon."

Diana rubs her forehead. I feel so bad for her. "Already? Why so soon?" I sound like I'm whining like a six-year-old. "Can't we take her out to eat or something?"

She shakes her head. "I'm not hungry." she mutters.

I nod at her, then stare pathetically back at Morgan, like I expect him to ignore her doctor's orders. Morgan just stares defiantly at the road, then pulls into the parking lot. I slam back in my seat, angry with him. He knows I'm angry, but still decides to find a parking spot and opens the backseat car door for her. "Be careful." he instructs, grabbing her hand and helping her out of the car. Morgan and I follow her inside and make sure she gets to her room safely.

When the nurse in smiley face scrubs leads us to Diana's room, it kind of reminds me of a hotel room. Except it has a very strong hospital smell, which always irritates me, and the bed looks slightly less comfortable. Diana just walks inside, and sits down in the recliner, looking around. Morgan and I stand at the door frame, kind of staring awkwardly. I'm trying to decide whether to invite myself in or just say goodbye. Should I hug her?

She lifts her index finger and points to the closet. "My stuff's in there." she announces.

Morgan and I look at the closet then nod, not getting it.

"In there, is a box full of Spencer's stuff. Photos and stuff like that. You can look at it if you want."

Morgan and I glance at each other, and Morgan decides for the both of us, and opens the closet door, instantly spotting a worn-out shoebox. Morgan points to it. "This?"

She nods.

Morgan sits on the coffee table next to her recliner and I hover above him as he lifts the box top. I get this weird feeling soaring through my veins, kind of that butterfly feeling, part nervous, part excited.

As soon as he lifts it up, we're exposed to plenty of photos of Reid as a kid. They're so cute I can't stop giggling at them. Diana is smiling, too. She reaches for one of Reid at approximately two years old. "Even then he was a genius." she says miraculously, like it's still hard to believe.

Morgan laughs. "I can see Reid crawling around in diapers sprouting off stuff he read from the Encyclopedia."

A photo buried beneath pretty much everything catches my eye. I reach for it and pull it out, staring at it for a long time. Reid looks about thirteen, and it looks like he may even be wearing braces. He's standing next to a woman and a man, whose clearly not his parents, and he looks like he's kind of smiling, kind of frowning. Like that awkward in-between smile you see in family portraits of kids who obviously did not want to do it. The background behind them is incredibly beautiful. Bright blue sky, bright green freshly cut grass. I see water in the distance, glistening from the sun.

"Who are they?" I ask Diana, turning the photo over to her.

She frowns at it, then takes it in her hands. "They were our neighbors. They loved Spencer. They invited him to their beach house one summer. That's where they were."

"He didn't keep in contact with them?" Morgan asks.

She shakes her head, then stares at it funny. "I guess not," she stares at it for a bit longer. "Kind of odd, actually. He just cut contact with them completely."

"Do you know why?" I pressed. Maybe I shouldn't have asked that.

She shrugs. "I never asked. I guess I was just too selfish of a parent."

Morgan touches her knee. "Don't say that," he says almost forcefully. "You were anything but a selfish parent. You did everything for Reid, he knew that."

I nod at her in agreement.

She half-smiles. I can tell it's forced. "Thanks," she stands up. "I wonder if Spencer ever kept in touch with their other son."

"Who?" Morgan asks.

"The Cleveland's. They had a son, about two years older than Spencer. He was kind of a strange boy, but he really liked Spencer. I have no idea why he didn't keep in touch with them."

I look at Morgan funny. "When did he stop seeing them?" I ask.

She pauses. "At about the time he got the job in the FBI." she nods, thoughtfully. "Yeah, right about then." she decides.

I look at Morgan. I know it's too soon to think it. Way too soon. But I can tell we're thinking it. Suddenly ideas and suspects are popping into our minds. We can't help it, with our job, it's like a skill you learn. And once you learn it, it stays with you permanently. Morgan jolts up. "Diana, do you happen to have their number still?"

She frowns a little. "Oh God, I don't know," she looks very uncertain. "I might have their old number, but they've probably moved since then."

I nod. "That's okay. We'll get it." Instantly I think of Garcia, and I know she'll be eager to help. Morgan couldn't grab his cell phone fast enough. I walk up to her and without thinking - because or else I won't do it - and I hug her. I want to say, _Thank God your having a good day. You don't know how much you've helped us. You've helped me, actually._ But I know I can't say that. "Thank you." is all I say.

I can hear her sniffling. "Thank you," she says softly. "It's nice to have some company." My heart aches again and I hold her tighter.

* * *

**Author's note: **Hope you guys like it. =)


	3. Chapter Three

**Author's note: **A dark chapter. Sort of. Hope you guys like it :) I'm inspired lately.

* * *

I kind of had a thing for Reid. It was about four or five years back when it started. I never really had a thing for him in the sense that I had dirty thoughts about him or anything like that. It was just a "thing". Nothing ever really happened between us, anyway. We went to a football game, which was sort of a date, but not really. Since then, I always saw him differently. It wasn't a bad different, just different. I was more protective of him, I guess; more aware of what an incredible person he was. I don't regret never furthering our relationship. I love Will and I love the family we built together, but I did find myself wondering what it would have been like. I also find myself wishing I'd kissed him at least once, just to know what it would feel like. I always kind of thought Reid would be a good kisser. Like, the person who's least sexual, is actually really good at it. Life is funny that way.

Morgan called Garcia right away about the Cleveland's. Diana, helpfully, told us their first names, their old address. Garcia found them right away. They still lived in the Las Vegas area, but they moved about twenty miles from Reid's old neighborhood. Morgan and I were pretty lost driving around Vegas. The streets are crowded, people carrying drinks in broad daylight. So much different from Virgina. I wonder how Reid handled the transition.

Morgan stops at a red light and sighs, becoming annoyed with the growing traffic ahead of us.

I squint my eyes at each car. "Do you think Reid liked living here?" I ask him.

Morgan shrugs. "I don't know; he never really talked about it."

I nod my head. He's right, Reid never really spoke much about his old life, before the BAU. I find myself wondering why. It makes me wonder why I suddenly care so much, why now all of a sudden I want to know everything there is to know about him. Maybe because I know I'll never get to ask him.

"It seems nice," I say, just as soon as the light turns green and Morgan accelerates hard.

Morgan sways his head, as to say, "Yeah, it's okay."

I grab my coffee from the cupholder and sip through the thin straw, instantly being filled head-to-toe with caramel swirls and whipped cream. I swallow the bitter taste of coffee that is heavy at the bottom of the cup and place it back. The coffee soothes me a bit, like my brain is relaxing suddenly. "So what's the plan?" I ask him.

He seems very calm to me. "Ask them questions." he says blandly, like we're going to order sandwiches at a restaurant.

I stare at him strangely. "That's it?" I ask. And the way I say it, he looks at me, knowing I think it's a bad idea. "We're just going to walk into these stranger's lives with no reason but, 'Oh, you know that kid you guys were fond of, like,'" I pause to do the math. My mind blanks. I forget how long Reid's worked at the BAU. "8 years?" I guess randomly.

Morgan doesn't correct me, so I assume I'm right. Or maybe he doesn't know either. I keep thinking, _that's another thing I'll never get to ask him._

He shrugs again carelessly. "JJ, what else are we supposed to do? Do you have a better plan?"

I slump in my seat. No, I don't. But whatever I can think up randomly has got to beat his plan. I shoot up, the buckle straining my chest from sitting up any closer. "How about we just ask them if he ever showed signs of depression or suicide thoughts growing up?" I ask.

He nods a little. "JJ, Reid didn't commit suicide." he says coldly.

I roll my eyes. "I know he didn't," I'm offended he thinks I'd believe that. "But they don't."

He narrows his eyes at me, then glances back at the busy road.

I sigh, growing tired. I sip my coffee again for strength. "We'll feel them out, I guess. See what type of people they are," I stare at the glove compartment. "We don't exactly have any reason to believe they have anything to do with Reid's murder."

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't say anything the rest of the ride there. I get this sinking feeling that something bad just happened; something I said was out of line.

We pull up. I've gotta say, their house is gorgeous. Bright green grass, nice fence, pretty big house. I can't help but wonder why a kid wouldn't like this family. They obviously have money, and obviously spoiled Reid with trips to expensive family-only vacations. Why would any kid stop hanging out with that?

"Wow." Morgan awes in admiration.

"I know." I say back, just as amazed.

We stroll up their concrete walkway, up their porch with a nice wholesome-looking swing and we just stare at the front door, like we're going to do that prank kids used to do: ring the bell and run like hell, laughing. Something tells me we're too old to do that. I wish we could, though. It sounds like a good plan to me. I'm about to suggest it until Morgan knocks bravely on the door.

Maybe I can run to the car. I can be immature. I don't, though. I suck in a breath until the door opens and a lady, about Reid's mother's age, swings open the door all the way.

I can see the strange looking she's giving the both of us. Maybe Morgan's gun is intimidating her. "Can I help you both?" she asks, her voice hesitant.

Morgan raises his FBI badge. I do it too. "Can we speak to you, Mrs. Cleveland, for a moment?"

Her body freezes tentatively. "Oh God, did something happen?"

I shake my head. "No, no, nothing like that," I reassure her, smiling at her. "Please can we step in for a moment?" Suddenly I forget this is about Reid. I get sucked into my job and it feels like any other time I've done this, about to talk to someone possibly involved with a murder case. She steps aside and lets us walk in. The inside of the house is just as, if not more, beautiful than the outside.

"Nothing happened to my son?" she asks us, once she closes the door.

Morgan shakes his head softly. "Nothing like that. We just have a few questions to ask, is all."

I feel terrible. We're intruding on this poor lady's home. She hasn't spoken to Reid in years. Maybe she doesn't remember him?

"Well, sit down then." she offers, still staring at us pensively.

Morgan and I eye the white leather sofa and decide to sit down, and she sits in the matching recliner next to it.

"Can I offer you guys something to drink?" she suggests kindly. Her tone is still shaking. Who wouldn't be nervous when the FBI knocks on your door?

Morgan declines. I'm glad he's handling this. "Do you remember Spencer Reid?" he starts out flatly.

Her face flushes back to color. She puts her hand to her chest. "Oh God, yes. Such a smart boy," she smiles proudly, then horror washes over her face. "Did something happen?"

Morgan stalls. He looks down. I can't tell what he's thinking, or even what his face looks like right now. It dawns on me that this is the first time we have to say it out-loud. _Yes, he died. They think it's suicide. He slit his wrists. _I can hear myself saying it in my head, but I can't say it.

She's still staring at us sympathetically. "Something happened to him?" she asks again, sounding very saddened.

Morgan nods, finally looking up. I'm relieved to see his face is dry. "Yes." his voice sounds deeper, but other than that, he recovered pretty quickly. "He died about a week ago."

She gasps loudly, then cups her hand over her mouth. She sincerely looks surprised. And hurt. "Oh no. Oh my God. How'd it happen?"

I can tell it's hard for him to explain it. I touch his shoulder reassuringly. I can feel the weight of Morgan's stress right now, like it's being laid on me.

"They found him in the basement with his wrists cut," he says quietly. But we all heard him. She gasps again, her eyes widening. I look down. _They found him_ as in I found him. Me. Not anyone else. Just me.

I was going over to his house to see if he was okay. He was kind of quiet the night before, when we went out to a celebration dinner, for finishing an extremely difficult case. He just picked at his spaghetti, barely saying anything. I had forgotten all about that, and now that I remember it, my heart sinks. Maybe there is truth to the rumor...

"He killed himself?" she asks, her mouth still gaping open. "Do you -" she looks truly, wholeheartedly shocked. "Do you know why?"

Morgan shakes his head. "Nothing makes sense to us right now." I can tell he means it. "We just found out from his mother that you guys used to know him, before we did. Before he worked with us. Can you tell us what he was like?"

She shifts in her seat. "Spencer got into the FBI?"

I nod, feeling very proud. I try to smile.

She looks proud too. "I knew he'd achieve great things." she says softly, shaking her head in awe.

"He did," Morgan says, looking down at his hands. "He saved a lot of people."

"I bet," she smiles. Her smile is sad. "I can't believe he died."

I can't either.

She sighs, recollecting herself. "Spencer was very quiet, very shy. He didn't have many friends. He was super-smart, though, as you guys must know. He knew everything. He loved playing Chess, even with adults sometimes," she smiles at the thought. "God, everybody was so impressed by him. Anyone in that neighborhood would've paid a nifty amount for his intelligence."

I nod as I listen. "Diana told us that he had a close relationship with your son," I say, shifting uncomfortably. "Is there any reason why they lost contact?"

Her face clouds over and she looks very shocked that I asked this. "You know, I'm not really sure why they stopped talking," she then shrugs, then says, "I guess Spencer was going one way, and my son, Michael, was going another." she shrugs again. "That happens."

I nod. Morgan's still very quiet. I decided it's time to switch rows, for Morgan to calm down.

"They got along good, though?" I press.

She nods fast. "Oh, yes. They were the best of friends."

I furrow my eyebrows at her. "And you have no idea why they stopped talking?"

She shakes her head profoundly. "No, not really," she sighs, sitting up. She adjusts her cardigan awkwardly. "Michael missed him, though. Michael thought of him as a brother. Jackson and I saw him as a son."

I assume Jackson is her husband. I nod. It still feels strange to me how someone they viewed as their own child could completely escape from their lives and not even ask why. I touch Morgan's arm, to wake him from his daydreaming.

"I guess we'll get going." I say. She looks instantly relieved, standing up, smiling.

"I'll walk you out." she says kindly.

Morgan and I get led out of her house, following by goodbyes and I'm sorrys and sympathetic glances before the door's closed and we're back on their porch.

"What do you think?" I ask him, looking behind me to make sure she's not watching us through the windows or trying to overhear our conversation. No one's in the windows.

He sighs. "I think she knows something."

"What?" I shout. I shout so loud it sounds like it would echo. "She acted fine to me."

He shakes his head decisively. "Come on, JJ. 'We saw him as our son.' Then why didn't they fight for him in their lives?" he's standing in front of me broadly now, clearly angry with me. "And what about that Michael kid? Something's up with him."

I shake my head at him. It occurs to me that we're full-blown arguing in their driveway, about her life and her son. Though this registers, I don't stop yelling at him.

"You never even spoke to him," I rationalize. "He seemed to really like Reid."

"Maybe too much." he retorts.

I roll my eyes, scoffing at him. "You've got to be kidding me. Now he's obsessed with him?" I wave my hands hysterically. I begin mocking him. Now I'm being immature. "Oooh, maybe he followed him everywhere. You know what? Maybe Tobias didn't kidnap and torture Reid, Michael did."

He stares straight up at the sky, fuming. I think if it were possible, red steam would be bellowing from his ears.

"Well I'm not giving up!" he shouts back, his lips trembling.

"Your just looking for someone to blame for Reid's death!" I accuse angrily. "It doesn't make sense, and it's horrible, and it's like a big heavy cloud is constantly over all of us, and there will always be a missing piece now that he's gone and your looking for an answer, but you know what? There is none. Maybe he was murdered, maybe he killed himself, at this rate, I think we'll never know." The words stream out so fast that when my vengeful speech is over, I have to catch my breath.

He just stares at me. For a second I think he's crying, because I see water drip down his cheek, but I realize it's beginning to rain. He pushes past me, his shoulder colliding with mine, nearly knocking me over, and storms over to the side of their house. I groan loudly at nothing and stomp my way over to him.

"What the hell are you doing?" I yell. He doesn't answer.

"Morgan!" I scream.

He peers into the tiny window at the very bottom level of their house. He is leaning on the grass, peeking in. I'm assuming it's the basement.

"What are you doing?" I repeat, calmer and quieter the second time. I gasp loudly. "Oh my God!" I cover my mouth.

He jolts up, staring at me. "What is it?" he asks nervously.

"Maybe they dug up his body and buried it in their basement for a keep's sake." I say, extremely sarcastically.

He rolls his eyes at me, then stares into the window again. He backs up a little bit, then starts fiddling with the screen window.

"What on earth are you doing?" I whisper now, afraid to get caught. "Are you insane? Breaking and entering now?"

"Will you shut up?" he whisper-snaps at me.

"I will not shut up," I lean down to his height to bitch at him more. "You are losing your mind. You've broken so many laws. You were peeping into windows, now your breaking into them?" I shake my head at him.

The screen makes a soft clicking noise and he gently lifts it up. He barely looks at me. "Yeah," he nods. "And maybe on my way out, I'll expose myself to someone so I can make it official." He sticks his head into the opened window and scans the room, then once he discovers the coast is clear, crawls in.

My mouth falls open. I hug my arms, freezing and wet. He climbs in effortlessly, then extends his hand to me. "Are you coming in or not?" he asks, like it doesn't matter either way.

"I cannot believe this." I say.

He rolls his eyes. "In?" he waves his hand at me like I'm out of it. "Out?"

I groan and mutter angry words to him that aren't even English and grab his hand, and he helps me inside. My boots are louder than his, because they're high-heeled.

"Will you take those things off?" he snaps at me from the corner, as he digs through old dusty boxes. "They're going to get us caught."

I give him the dirtiest look I can possibly give anyone, which actually looks funny, and unzip my boots and slide them off. I drop them on the floor, and they clatter on it loudly.

He shushes me. I give him another dirty look. The basement is filled wall-to-wall with old boxes stuffed with old things that clearly haven't been touched in eons, because they're dust-filled, little thick balls of it collecting on certain stuff.

I cough when he lifts an old picture frame and dust poofs out. "What are we even looking for?" I put my hands on my hips. "Unpaid parking tickets? Maybe pornography? You really want to get these people, huh?"

He doesn't answer me. But I keep talking. I fold my arms, following him around the room, careful not to touch anything. He lifts a magazine with a half-naked girl on the cover with words in bright blue scrawled out PLAYBOY. I gasp sarcastically. "Oh my God! Better handcuff the husband, I think he's up to something."

I can feel him shooting me a look, so I decide to shut up.

"Seriously, Morgan, how can I help if I don't know what I'm supposed to be finding?" I ask, nicely this time.

He finally answers me. "Just anything Reid-related."

I scoff. "How can you even tell? Everything's in boxes. We'd have to tear this whole place apart first."

He doesn't say anything, just keep fumbling through the box. I roll my eyes to the ceiling. "If your looking through old Playboy's, so help me God..."

He waves me over to him. "No, no, look at this."

I walk over and lean over his shoulder to see into the old cardboard box. A framed picture, just like the one Diana had, except larger, of Reid on vacation with the Cleveland's.

"So?" I say. I try to be nice about it, though. "They saw him as a son. I'm sure they had it hanging up at one time."

He shakes his head. "Michael's in this photo." he points out.

I shrug my shoulders, as to say, I don't get what the big deal is. Because I don't.

He stays patient with me. I actually start feeling bad about being rude to him. "Why is Michael cut out of Diana's picture?"

I shake my head. "I think your looking too much into everything." I say honestly.

He lays the framed picture down on a closed box, then shuffles through the same box, digging deeper.

I decide to open a box myself. It's better than standing there inhaling Morgan's strong cologne. Dust poofs up into my face and I cough, but think about Reid, and decide to tough it out. All while I'm burying through these people's things, I think of how Reid handled the pain when he cut his wrists, no matter who did it to him. Did his body go into shock? Did he lay there in pain for minutes? Maybe close to an hour? Before he died.

"Find anything?" Morgan asks after a couple minutes pass.

"No." But as soon as I say that, I find a notebook. I lift it up, then sit down on a bigger box that stands tall on the floor as I open it. The back of the cover is signed by Reid and Michael. The first page is written from Michael. Michael's scribbling random images, and if it weren't for his signature at the bottom of the page, I wouldn't have known it was Michael drawing it. The next page is Reid's scribbling, then writing random quotes he found places. One of them makes my heart go soft. _Moving on, is a simple thing, what it leaves behind is hard._ The next page is Michael again. They must have been taking turns. Michael takes this page as a chance to write a journal entry, displaying secrets he kept hidden. I read through it kind of fast, then skip to see Reid's. Reid has written secrets, too. Four of them. I read all of them, one by one, carefully. _One: One time when my mom was having an episode, and freaking out, throwing things, I told her she was nothing but psychotic. She looked scared of me for the first time. She looked so small. I wanted to cry._

_Two: When my dad left, I wished something would happen to him. He got in a car accident on his ride to work the next day. He was fine, but he had a concussion and bruises. I've felt guilty ever since. But the worst part is: I don't really feel truly guilty. I feel he deserved it._

I'm surprised to hear Reid write all of this. Reid's never really been cold before. I should get Morgan, but I don't. I want to read this in peace.

_Three: My mom was freaking out one night and accidentally cut me with a knife. I screamed it hurt so bad. But in a strange way, it relaxed me. The sadness I saw in her eyes made me feel less angry with her, like I was getting back at her by being in pain._

My heart jumps and stops beating for a second. I feel strange, and I think I should close the notebook, but I'm unable to. This doesn't look good. But I keep reading.

_Four: I'm tired of everybody thinking of me as the genius. I'm more than that. Or, I want to be more than that. But I don't think I'm anything to anyone._

I feel so sad for Reid. For thirteen-year-old lonely Reid. I think he was thirteen, according to the year dated in the back of the cover, he'd be thirteen. I flip the page. The pages are blank. I flip through about sixty of them. All blank. Now there's only a tiny chunk of papers left in the book, and I'm sad that that's all there is. Eventually I come across a page that has writing on it. It's Michael. I read it carefully, because I see Reid's name mentioned.

_Spencer and I hung out today. It was great. Sometimes I feel he's too smart for me though. Like no one notices me when he's around. It really annoys me sometimes. We were at the park, and I grabbed a stick, and suggested we become blood brothers. He said no. I asked him why not, and he said because he didn't want to bleed. I was so angry I stabbed him with the stick. He didn't get really badly injured or anything, but he bled, just like he didn't want. I was so glad. I was scared at how glad I was to see him bleed. It made me so happy. He looked scared to death._

"Uh...Morgan?" I manage to say. I can't stop thinking, if this kid didn't kill Reid, he must've done something to someone in the future.


	4. Chapter Four

**Author's note: **I'm glad I have two stories going at once. One that is a lot happier than this one, and this one, which is always consistently dark. It lets me express both sides of me, it's very nice. Ha. I hope you guys enjoy this, and I hope it doesn't depress you. I think the next chapter will actually have more going on.

* * *

Morgan drops whatever he's been holding onto right into the box like it's nothing, like it's not somebody's item they might want someday, and might want it in good condition. Apparently respect of other people's property is lost on him at a time like this. He charges over to me and takes the notebook from my hands and scans the page rather quickly.

He remains quiet for a little while, and I just sit there, watching his eyes dance across the entire page. He sighs and flips to the next page. It's empty.

"Don't freak out," I say, jumping to my feet. I want to say that this isn't telling us very much, but that's a lie if I've ever heard one.

He drops the notebook on top of a closed box. "You've got to be kidding me, right? This is warning signs of a future serial killer," he concludes, pointing at it to further his point. "It might as well have flashing neon signs and arrows pointing down to the pit of hell that this kid came from."

I cannot believe what he's saying. I grab his arms and make him look at me. His body tenses. I guess I've taken him off guard. "Morgan, listen to me," I command. "You're losing it, okay? I'm not saying this isn't alarming, it definitely is, but we can't jump to conclusions."

He sighs heavily and looks very exhausted suddenly, like he needs to sit down himself. "I'm not jumping to conclusions." he says defensively.

I give him a look.

"Okay, okay, maybe I shouldn't have dragged us in here like this," he looks around the room, at the messy boxes stacked high and the opened notebook. "But I'm glad I did."

I force a smile, though I still feel like I'm right and he's wrong. "I guess it wasn't your dumbest idea," I say nicely.

He gives me a look. I can't quite read it, but I think he's not mad at me. "Can we keep looking?" he asks.

I roll my eyes, letting go of his arms. I'd honestly forgotten I'd been holding him still. "We should get going," I say.

"Please? Just a little bit longer?" he gives me that puppy-dog look that is very, very hard to resist. I look away, trying to ignore it, but it hovers over me like a shadow. "I really think we've got something here."

I fold my arms, trying to show him that I'm not easy to convince, but I'll admit, I'm swaying a little. "What makes you so sure?" I squint my eyes at him cautiously.

"I can just feel it," he sighs and blinks at me. I wonder if I keep him begging a little longer if he'll actually pout his lips and give me a full-force puppy-dog look. "Isn't that enough?"

He's being really nice to me all of a sudden and I can tell he means what he says, so I give in, letting my arms fall to my side in defeat. "Fine, we'll keep looking." I decide.

He smiles, beaming at me, then whips around, digging through the box I found the notebook in. He shuffles through useless junk, like old ratty baseball hats that would fit on a six-year-old's hand, that probably belonged to Michael, or maybe even Reid, and then pushes past old newspaper articles that he tosses aside like they're meaningless. I reach for them, though they're now all crumpled and wrinkly thanks to Morgan's carelessness.

"Will you stop crushing everything?" I snap, trying to straighten it out with my hands. I don't mean to say it so rudely, but it sounds like I'm scolding him.

He looks at me for a second, then shrugs. "No one's touching this, JJ," he says casually. Though I notice he's handling things much nicer now.

I keep watching him for a second until I'm positive he's not damaging anything too much, then fumble through the articles. I'm not expecting anything juicy, but I'm just making sure. I mean, why else would they save old newspaper articles if they didn't have some sort of significance to them? But for all I know, it could show old football scores that the father really liked or crap like that.

"Find anything good?" he asks me.

I place the third piece of paper I look at it on a nice neat pile I've created. "No," I say, frowning. "Nothing good to me, anyway."

"Then why save it?" he asks.

I shrug. "Who knows? It doesn't really matter," I say.

"It does to me," he adds, "Any little bit of information helps."

I try to bite my tongue, but he's making it very hard. "Yes, when we're looking for an actual UnSub, but this guy may not have done anything to Reid," I put the paper down, feeling a strong I'm-right point bubbling to the surface. "You know, it's very likely Michael hasn't spoken to Reid in years."

He doesn't say anything, just finishes looking at the box until it reaches the end then puts everything in there, piling it on top, one after another, then sighs, heading over to another closed one.

I pick up the paper again and look at it, then flip it to the other side. On the left side corner, in bold black text says **LOCAL BOY DISCOVERS BODY.** I reach for Morgan, my eyes still fixed on the text, like if I look away, I'll lose it and won't be able to find it again.

"Morgan," I stammer. "Look. It mentions Michael," I look at it longer, just fumbling through the article shortly. "And Reid."

Morgan stops opening the box and leans over my shoulder, reading the article. We're both reading it at the same time.

_Saturday afternoon, October 12th, Michael Cleveland, a 21 year-old college sophomore, discovered the body of local high school student and soccer player, Christopher Jennings. Detectives do not have any leads or information as to who may be responsible, and after doing a short but thorough investigation of Cleveland, they conclude that Cleveland has nothing to do with the incident. "It's unfortunate that a young boy like Michael had to see something so horrific," says the neighbor of the Cleveland's, who watched Michael grow up and babysat him often. "I hope it doesn't haunt him for too long." Michael refused an interview with us, reasoning is because he's too "bothered and burdened to talk about it," says his father, George Cleveland. Michael wasn't alone discovering the body, who was apparently out hiking with a friend, Spencer Reid, also 21. Reid also declined an interview. No further information._

"You don't think," I don't have to ask. I can almost see Morgan's thoughts swirling around wildly, putting pieces together before we even know what the hell the puzzle is. "Your jumping." I warn him.

He strokes his chin in deep concentration. "I wonder if," he cuts himself off. I can tell he's not speaking directly to me, or at anyone at all, just talking out-loud. I don't think it even matters if I'm here or not.

"Talk to me," I demand, after he stays quiet for too long.

He looks up, his eyes focused and I can tell he's got a plan. "Why didn't we think to call Garcia before?" he yanks his cell phone out of it's holder which is clinging to the side of his jeans and quickly thumbs in her number.

"Because that would also be jumping to conclusions," I mutter under my breath, taking a seat on a box.

Upstairs, I hear a noise. I wonder if Mrs. Cleveland can hear us. I suddenly become paranoid, thinking maybe she's heard everything. Maybe she called the police. Maybe we'll get our badges taken away for breaking and entering. I walk over to Morgan, whose impatiently awaiting Garcia's answer.

"Morgan, we should go," I whisper to him. He doesn't hear me because he gives me a look, but I'm pointing to the window and I'm making it very clear what I mean, so if he doesn't get it, then I think there's truth to the theory that cell phones aren't good for you. Maybe they make you lose brain cells. If he's not getting what I'm saying, he's gone stupid. I keep motioning to the window anyway.

"Garcia, baby girl, listen to me carefully," he says, walking away from me like I don't exist. "This is very important."

I can't hear what she's saying, just a little something squeaky coming from the phone, but nothing close to speaking actual words. I'm assuming she'll say yes right away.

"I need you to dig up dirt on someone for me," he pauses, then says his name slowly. "Michael Cleveland. Lives in Vegas." he pauses, a smirk appears on his face, and it almost looks cocky. "Aw, you too, hot stuff."

I usually think their flirting is cute and all, but right now I'm annoyed with him for really no good reason at all, and it makes me kind of queasy hearing them. It's like, get at it already or cut the crap. I realize then that I'm in a bad mood and try to calm myself before Morgan hangs up.

"Call me back right away," he says, then says goodbye and hangs up. "Now we wait." he says, walking over to me.

I look at the window, then at the cloudy sky. At least it stopped raining. "Didn't you see me pointing to the window?" I ask. Inside, I'm boiling.

He nods simply. "Yes."

I put my hands on my hips and I shake my head. "And you just ignored me?"

He reaches for the notebook and the newspaper articles then hands me my boots. "Yeah, and now we're leaving," he smiles at me, but it's a fake-nice smile. "Now slide those annoying clunkers on and we'll get going." he effortlessly slides out of the window, notebook and newspaper under his arm and then sticks his hand inside for me to grab.

I slide my boots on and he helps me outside, and I hurry to the car because I'm freezing.

"What now?" I ask, my teeth chattering.

He starts the car and hot air poofs out of the vents. I rub my hands together and put them in front of the vents, and I instantly get in a better mood.

"We wait until Garcia calls," he starts pulling out of the driveway. "How long could that take? Not long at all."

I stare out of the window, watching the beautiful house fade into the distance. "So until then, what do we do?"

"Eat," he decides, looking around town for a restaurant or diner that meets his approval.

"You want to?" I ask.

He nods. "Yeah, I'm starving."

We barely can stand being in a room with each other, so it surprises me he wants to actually sit down and enjoy a meal with me, but it was his idea, so I don't say no.

* * *

Morgan chooses the place; I don't really have an opinion on much of anything. He's being nice all the ride there, but I'm still cranky. "Does that place look nice?" he'd ask me about a hundred times at about a dozen different places, and I'd just nod and say, "Looks fine to me." All the while I'm thinking, _Did Reid ever eat there?_ It's a dumb thought, but it still creeps into my mind at every single place he chooses. Eventually he pulls into a small retro-looking diner, with bright red signs and funky decorations inside. It looks like the type of place Morgan would choose. He skips right past the fancy restaurants and bar and grills and heads straight for a place with fun-loving waitresses and waiters who enjoy small-talk and exchanging sports scores and where you can be just about anyone and they'll be nice to you. I appreciate the place he picks, because it's just what I need.

A short older woman in a frilly apron approaches me, and I can tell she works here. "Can I get ya anything, darlin'?" she asks, chomping on gum and smiling at me with a bright gummy smile.

I smile back. "Just coffee," I say.

Morgan shoots me a look from the other end of the table. "Your kidding me, right? I didn't come here so you could get _coffee_," he says 'coffee' in a weird tone, like he's never heard of it before. It makes me crack up. He looks at the waitress, putting on his best, most charming smile. "She'll have the chicken special."

The waitress writes it down on her tiny notepad and winks at Morgan, and Morgan, not surprisingly, winks back. I almost choke on my water because I'm trying not to laugh. "Must you hit on everything that moves?" I say when she walks away, but I'm joking about it.

He leans back in his chair, and stretches his arms out behind his head. "Might as well while I have my looks going for me," he says casually, then laughs at himself.

I'm laughing too, and I hardly realize it at first. "Your so full of it." I say, sipping my water because I can't stop smiling.

He fake-pouts at me. "Aw, JJ, do you feel left out?"

I shoot him a glare. "Your not serious," I shake my head.

He leans forward and I can smell his minty gum. I want a piece. Why didn't he offer me some? He winks at me then smirks.

I push his shoulders and he falls back in his chair, laughing. "Alright, alright, I'll stop it." he says, smiling at me; but not in a mean way, or in a joking way, but in a nice way.

I smile nicely too. "Thank you." I realize it's the first time we actually talked without Reid being mentioned. I want to talk more about the plan, since it's kind of up in the air and a big mess, but I don't want to bring him down again. Or bring myself down, for that matter.

The waitress returns with two chicken specials and places my plate down in front of me, then lowers Morgan's down like he's the President and deserves the utmost respect. "I made yours with extra sauce," she blinks her bright blue eyes at him flirtatiously. "I hope you like it _spicy_."

I crack up again, but I try to disguise it, so it sounds like I'm choking. She looks at me worried for a second, then goes back to beaming at Morgan like he's a god.

Morgan just smiles back plainly, like he's used to so much attention. "I sure do." he says, and this seems to make her entire night and I watch as she walks away, smiling at everyone in sight. I understand for the first time why he's so nice to everyone, maybe annoyingly nice. You never know who needs it. You never know what impact your smile or your compliments can make on a person.

I dig into my chicken and it's lackluster. It's really good chicken; tender, juicy, made perfectly. But it's definitely lacking the spiciness Morgan's is obviously drowning in. I stare at his enviously.

"Is it good?" he asks, sipping his water.

I shrug. "It's alright," I say halfheartedly.

"You want to try mine?" he pushes his plate until it clinks against mine.

I stare at his. "Can I?" I say, lifting my fork to it. He nods and pushes it closer, and I dig into his. It tastes delicious, and the hotness of the spices instantly wakes me up, in a good way.

Morgan's phone rings as he's smiling at me, and it sounds haunting, and actually scares me. I put my fork down and watch as he answers it. I'm sad that the good moment between us had to end so quickly; now we're back to the plan. Back to finding out why Reid really died, or most importantly, how.

His face clouds over and he's back to being serious. "Okay, Garcia, thanks." and he hangs up.

I raise my eyebrows at him expectantly.

"She found Michael; she knows where he's working, and he's working there tonight," he informs me.

I pause. Why isn't he rushing us out of here to hunt him down? "And?" I prompt him.

Morgan sighs, rubbing his face with his hands. "And they found a suicide note." he says very quietly, very coldly.

My body freezes. "Reid's?" I ask.

He nods behind his hands. He lowers them and finally looks at me. "It's Reid's handwriting, JJ," he looks so sad by this. "Hotch is positive."

I feel my whole body weakening. I never expected this. I don't know how to react. "Should we go see it?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "I'm not sure," he pushes his plate away from him like suddenly it's disgusting. "I'm not hungry anymore."

I lean back in my chair, slumped and feeling heavy. "Me neither." I whisper back.

* * *

Morgan and I leave the diner and we fly back to Quantico. We're quiet the whole jet ride back. He's laying back on the sofa with his arm blocking his eyes and his headphones on, and I'm curled up tightly with my knees brought up to my chest. It's sick, but I can't stop picturing Reid bloody and his wrists cut. How could he bring himself to do it? That's what gets me.

Then I think of what possibly could have been so horrible in his life that he had to resort to this. I try my hardest to think back to the day before he died. All of us at the restaurant, eating, Reid the only one who wasn't talking. I remember Emily making a joke about it, something about him missing a documentary on the Discovery channel and Morgan laughing at it, and hitting his arm playfully, and saying something about his nonexistent girlfriend getting him down. We all laughed and played along, but we didn't see the darkness behind his eyes or the forced smile he gave all of us to make us think he was okay; it was just a bad day, we all figured.

But even I, naive little me, thought something was wrong. We all talked about it the next day, when he didn't seem much cheerier at work. He went home without saying goodbye. I could picture all of it. I could picture me standing in my office, watching him grab his jacket and bag and sling it around his arm and slip his jacket on, and walking away. Quiet and slipping away sadly, without telling anyone. I can just see myself standing there, not saying a word. I imagine myself running out of my office and reaching for him, and him looking at me with such sad heavy eyes I don't recognize him. Then a terrifying image punctures my thought, of Reid dripping blood from every part of his body, and I let go, horrified, but when I let go, he shatters to a million pieces. I'm half-asleep, half-awake, but I jump up from my dream, scared to death to close my eyes again.

I saw him that night. I was watching him leave. I never ever thought it'd be the last time I saw him walk away. But it's always like that, with anyone. You never know when's the last meal your sharing with them, or the what's the last joke you hear them tell, or the last fight your ever going to have with them. I try to remember every memory, all of those. The last meal I had with him was at the restaurant, where I should have walked over to his seat, asked him to go outside with me and ask me what was bothering him. The last joke I ever heard him tell, if I'm recalling correctly, is one that I didn't even get, because math's not my strong suit. I rolled my eyes at him and said, "Spence, no one ever likes your jokes; no one gets them." and his smile faded. I try to remember touching him and smiling and saying, "But that's okay, because your too cute, so it makes up for it." but I didn't. I walked away. I was thinking that, but I didn't say it. I left him frowning. My heart cracks a little. I try to imagine the last fight I had with him, but I can't. I don't think I've ever truly fought with him. For some reason I keep envisioning myself squeezing him after he was tortured and I don't know why, but I keep mistaking that for a fight. Like deep inside he blamed me. I guess I'll never know.

My body feels heavy, but now I definitely can't sleep. I know it's not physically possible for my heart to actually break, at least not from this, but I swear it feels like it's about to explode, because it's so filled with sadness that I refuse to let out. It's caving in in such a short time, and I'm afraid it just might burst.


	5. Chapter Five

**Author's note: **Interested to see what you guys think. Michael: guilty or innocent? :) Thanks guys for reading!

* * *

Walking into the BAU feels strange to me. I feel like everyone's watching us, Morgan and me, as we exit the elevator. The team are standing, awaiting our arrival, clutching a single piece of paper. Garcia is blotting the corner of her eyes with a thin tissue, and Prentiss is consoling her with wet eyes. Hotch looks so solemn and harsh it's almost frightening, but I understand that is his stressed face, so I don't say anything or feel offended.

Morgan is hard to read. He's been very quiet, and so have I. We don't really know what to say to each other. Hotch extends the letter to us, an open invitation for either one of us to grab it. Morgan doesn't; I do.

I inhale deeply and stare at it. At first, I just read the first letters over and over, and strangely it's not making sense to me, which means I'm not really focusing. _To The Team, _he scribbled. I feel like everyone's watching me, so without saying anything, I push past them and carry it to the briefing room, to read it without anybody watching. I'm relieved when I realize only Morgan is following me.

Morgan opens the door very quietly, as I sit down at the table, still staring at the beginning of the note. He watches me for a second, leaning against the door, like I'm supposed to invite him inside to make it official.

"Close the door." I say quietly. He takes this is an invitation and steps inside, shutting the door. He takes a seat beside me, leaning far back in like he's relaxing, then sighs.

"What's it say?" he asks me, after a moment of nothing but silence.

I shake my head. "I haven't read it, really," I say honestly.

"Do you need me to?" he offers.

I pause then hand it over to him, and he takes it, breathing steady like he's preparing himself. He sits up, clears his throat like it's a big speech, then begins. I stare at the dark wood of the table as he talks.

_To The Team,_

Morgan first begins the letter, sounding so clinical about it, like he's reading off health facts in a magazine. But the further he gets into the letter, the more emotional his voice sounds.

_The first thing I want to say is that I hope you didn't find me. I hope it wasn't one of you who saw me lying there. _

My throat tightens and I'm expecting myself to feel choked up or shed a tear or anything, but I remain still and actually feel numb. I can feel Morgan glance at me to see if I'm okay, but then he looks back down at the paper and continues. Briefly, his hand reaches mine and he grasps it, then brings it back to the letter.

_I wish I could tell all of you why I'd done this. I'm sure you're so confused. You have the right to be. It was just so unexpected, so unlike me. The Spencer Reid you guys knew wouldn't have done this. I seemed perfectly sane, right? What you guys hadn't noticed though, was that it wasn't easy to be sane. I __always __had to pretend. After a while, it became so difficult. There were so many times I wanted to talk to any one of you about it, to just tell you guys everything, no matter how you looked at me or how you saw me after that. I never told you guys about my drug addiction. I know after a while it became obvious; I didn't hide it very well. But no one ever mentioned it to me. It was a quiet struggle, one that I wasn't strong enough to tell anyone about. I thought you guys would see me differently. You don't understand; I couldn't lose you guys too. I couldn't risk you guys seeing me any less. You're my only family._

My heart feels full and my head feels heavy. I wonder what Morgan's thinking. The way he's reading it has changed since the beginning. His tone is quiet, and he's speaking slower, like he's taking it all in as he reads each line. Reid's right: we had known a thing or two about his drug addiction. But we didn't know it was _that _bad; honestly, we'd thought he kind of had it taken care of a while ago. I had no idea he was still using. I feel so incredibly stupid for not knowing it. He really seemed like it'd gotten better.

_On top of all of that, there was something else. Something hidden much deeper, something I'd kept quiet for years. I'd held something from you guys, something I was afraid to even admit to myself. The very thought scared me to death. I was always so afraid I'd become my mother. No, it was worse: I was afraid I'd become somebody else. Someone who completely goes insane. I'm talking completely losing my mind here. I was always so afraid I'd be that. Then I'd be sent away, just like my mother, and I'd lose every one of you. I wouldn't even be me anymore. Would I even have a life? I lived with this fear every single day. Sometimes I'd think something and wish I never thought about it, but I'd keep thinking it anyways, because I couldn't control my own mind anymore. It's gotten that bad. It scares me. I'd ly awake sometimes and wonder if one of these days I'll just start freaking out about anything; something so miniscule everyone gives me "that" look. I won't be able to forget "that" look. _

I finally get brave enough to shoot a look at Morgan, who shoots his eyes over to meet mine, then brings it back down to the paper, like he's afraid to look at me.

_I hope you guys don't hate me for this. That's not what I wanted at all. I just got so tired or being afraid, is all. I got so tired of being someone else when I wasn't with you guys. I wasn't Dr. Reid anymore. I was someone that was alone and scared and pathetic. _

The word "pathetic" sounds so harsh, I almost flinch when he reads it.

_Either way, this was my decision. No one is at fault here, so __please__ don't ever blame yourselves for this. There's nothing you could have done. Plain and simple: this is what I wanted. I always loved you guys and you were my one and only true family. You guys always stuck by me, and for that, I was always thankful. I can't say it enough, honestly. I hope you guys achieve great things, save tons of lives and accomplish anything your hoping to accomplish. And if I ever run across your mind, I only hope it's good things, and you don't think about this side of me. _

_Love, Dr. Spencer Reid/Pretty Boy/Spence/Reid._

Morgan finishes the note, and the room goes completely quiet and still. I can barely make out sounds of people walking around outside of the briefing room. Maybe the sounds of people's feet shuffling on the carpets, I don't know. Then I start thinking strange thoughts. Like, why did the team decide to meet up here when Strauss had given us a week off? What was Reid doing when he wrote it, was he crying? Did Reid kill himself directly after? Then I hate myself for even thinking he killed himself.

Morgan sinks in his chair and leaves the letter lying on the table. "I don't know what to say." he mutters quietly.

I shake my head slowly. "I can't believe -" _I can't believe he did it._ But I'm afraid to say it out-loud, like it makes it true.

"Do you think he...?" Morgan doesn't finish, but I know what he wants to ask me.

"I don't know," I say honestly, my head feeling kind of fuzzy and dizzy. "It's hard to think otherwise."

"I just can't imagine Reid taking his life," he insists. "It's just not like him."

"He said that in the letter." I point out, almost inaudibly.

He just nods solemnly. He sits up, cups his face and sighs. "I need a drink," he mumbles. "Do you want to come with me?"

I stand up. "Yes, please," I agree, sighing. "Let's go."

Morgan leads me out of the briefing room and we manage to escape without anyone approaching us, and we also happen to stealthily slip through the parking lot without being honked at by any of our team members. I slide into the passenger seat and hug my arms, then buckle, thinking about nothing but how good and relaxed I'll feel once I polish off a couple beers. I had felt my phone vibrating a while ago, maybe on the jet, but I didn't bother answering it. It occurs to me that Will is probably really concerned, but I'm kind of selfishly putting him elsewhere on my priority list right now. Like my sanity is most important. Because if I hear one more thing about death and killing and suicide and wrist-cutting and bleeding, I'm about to lose my head.

* * *

At the bar, Morgan takes my arm and pushes past the crowd of people surrounding the booths and the bar and the TVs. He slips through a little crack in the whole place that doesn't have a person standing in, and pulls me and him into it. "Excuse me," he calls to the bartender. She looks up absent-minded at him and raises her eyebrows. "Two beers, please." he calls. She nods in his direction then gives the people beside us the same look.

A couple of people who are obviously drunk bump into me, then touch my arm apologetically, then continue doing some sort of motion that they probably call dancing; I call it making an ass out of yourself.

"I wish I'd gone somewhere quieter," he says, eying the large crowd, shaking his head.

I shrug my shoulders. "I don't mind." and I mean it, too. The loud noise everywhere makes it hard to think, and I see that as a good thing.

Two beers slide our way with a napkin underneath the glass and we grab it at the same time, clinking our glasses and chugging the beers like it's a life preserve, like it's all we have left. I think this is the first time I've ever drank my emotions. It feels good.

About forty-five minutes and five beers later, we're tipsy. Beyond tipsy, actually. I'm staring at my empty beer glass, considering ordering another one, but it feels pretty much impossible. I'm finding it hard to say words like "beautiful" or "officer", which, you know, isn't a good idea if we get pulled over. I didn't even discuss plans with Morgan when we were sober about how we were going to get home. I look over at Morgan, about to ask, but he's staring at the bottom of his empty glass too, maybe trying to blink his eyes or wiggle his nose to get more beer to appear.

I nudge his arm. He looks up at me, almost startled. "Whatcha thinking about?" I ask, my words sounding kind of slippery. The way Morgan's eyes are half-closed makes me laugh.

"Nothing," he says simply. He stands up, wipes his hands on his jeans and reaches his hand out to me. "Dance with me." he suggests.

I laugh again. "You dance?" I ask incredulously.

He smirks a little, then sways a little to the side, like he's about to topple over, but regains posture. "Here and there," he wiggles his hand out at me. "Come on."

I take his hand and follow him out to the middle of the bar, where no one is dancing, just laughing and drinking and watching the TVs hanging on the walls. I don't even think there's actual music playing anywhere, but for some reason, we maintain a solid slow-dancing rhythm.

"What are _you_ thinking about?" he asks me. Amazingly, it seems like the noise swimming around us is completely drowned out. Like no one is here but just us. All I can focus on is if my feet are stepping on his or if the height difference is going to interfere eventually. It's nice to think about something so little, so unimportant.

"Nothing," I say in response, nonchalantly. He raises my hand above my head and makes me spin. My feet feel like they're detaching from my body and any minute I might make myself fall, but I just stare at the room around me turning into one large blur. Nothing but bright colors dancing and people becoming one big beige-colored wall, and when he stops me, it feels like the room is still spinning. I lean against him and watch the room as it sort of rearranges, like it's a puzzle and the pieces are being put back into place.

"Are you alright?" he laughs, holding onto me. Thank God he is, or else I really would have gone down.

"It looks so nice," I marvel. Eventually the bar turns into the bar again; no blurred images of anything.

"What looks nice?" he asks me, still sort of laughing.

"Everything blurry," I answer. I look at him, wide-eyed. "It looked pretty cool." Then I realize how drunk I sound, and I burst out laughing. He bursts out laughing too, and for a while, we're just laughing at nothing. Then nothing turns into everything. He points at people dressed in funny clothes, and we laugh. People falling on their asses drunk, which is actually kind of sad, and hypocritical of us considering our close-calls we were having, and we laugh.

But then the last person I ever expected seeing that night walks through the door and I freeze. I poke at Morgan's chest to get his attention. Morgan swivels his head in the direction of the door and sees Hotch, and he stands still, swallowing. I try to stand upright, but it's hard, because I'm not sure if it's because I was laughing so hard or because I'm drunk, but the room is still kind of twirling.

Hotch approaches us, and I feel like it's deja vu all over again, like I'm in high school and I just got caught skipping class and the principal has had it up to here with me. I duck behind Morgan.

"Come on guys, we're leaving," he says sternly, reaching for Morgan's arm. Morgan refuses it.

"No, man," he shouts. "We're fine here."

Somehow Hotch remains perfectly calm, and keeps his voice low but harsh. "No, _we're_ leaving," he sneaks a glare at me from the corner of his eye. "You too, JJ."

Morgan sighs and Hotch helps walk both of us out to his car. The outside air kind of wakes me up and I feel less drunk the further we get to the car. But I also feel really hungry and thirsty.

He helps Morgan into the backseat and then helps me into the passenger, and as soon as I get in, I press my head against the cool glass. The hotness of my face relaxes, and I close my eyes and can almost fall asleep until the sound of the driver's door opening and slamming startles me.

"Buckle." he commands impatiently, and we both do it, groaning like it's the hardest thing in the world to do.

"We didn't ask you to help us," Morgan shouts from the backseat.

"And thank God I did," Hotch says, watching Morgan in the rear-view mirror as he talks to him. "What the hell were you two thinking?"

Neither one of us respond.

"How did you find us?" I ask, picking something unfamiliar out of a strand of my hair.

"I'm a profiler," he says simply, sighing like he's disappointed in us. I'm sure he is. "It's not that hard to figure out where you guys were going after reading that letter."

I want to ask what Hotch thinks. If he thinks Reid killed himself. But I can't say the words, even though I really want to. I'm not sure why I can't ask; maybe I'm afraid to hear his answer.

"Where are you taking us?" Morgan asks, staring out of his window.

"JJ's going home, and your coming with me." he says.

I shoot up. _Crap, Will. _It'll only worry him _that_ much more if he sees I'm drunk. "Uh, Hotch, actually..." Hotch looks my way momentarily. "Can I stay with you?" Normally I wouldn't have the balls to ask, but I'm kind of still really drunk.

He doesn't say much for a while. "What about Will? I'm sure he's worried about you," he readjusts in his seat. "Since I told him where you were."

I sigh and hold my face in my hand. "Oh, shit." I whisper.

"Calm down, I lied," Hotch says. I instantly relax, but I want to hit him for scaring me. "But you should have called him."

"I will," I snap, very annoyed. "But when I talk to him, I want to be thinking clearly." I touch my stomach. "And not queasy."

Hotch makes a face. He jolts quickly to the side of the road, and that quick motion sets my stomach in overdrive, and I shove the door open, throwing up right then and there right out of his car.

* * *

Hotch did as promised and let Morgan and I stay at his house. I took the guest room, Morgan took the couch. Lucky for me, the vomiting I did outside of his car got everything out of my stomach. Morgan had to get up and do it in Hotch's toilet in the middle of the night. I woke up, heard it, and laughed. Now it's 5 A.M. and I'm gathering my stuff, tip-toeing my way down the stairs, passing Morgan. At first, I don't notice Morgan sitting upright on the sofa sipping coffee.

"Your awake?" I give him a funny look, whispering. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

He shrugs. "Where do you plan on going? We don't have a car."

I close my eyes and slap my palm hard on my forehead. "Shit!" I say.

Morgan pauses, staring out of the window, just thinking I presume.

"What?" I ask.

He puts his cup down on the coffee table, accidentally missing the coaster, and walks up to the window, staring out at Hotch's driveway.

"Morgaaaaan." I say, desperate to get his attention.

He looks at me. Then looks at the keys lonesomely peeking out of Hotch's jacket pocket on the coat hanger.

"Your not actually thinking about," I catch his eye and shake my head. "You have officially lost it now."

He bites his bottom lip then slowly grabs the keys, making sure they don't jingle too loudly. I gasp. I mean, come on now! First breaking and entering, now _this_? He's hit a whole new low. I think he's way too determined. And what's he even determined about now? We know Reid killed himself, the suicide note said it all. Now all that's left is facing the cold hard truth of it all.

"We'll just borrow it," he says, trying to convince himself.

"No." I say deadpan.

"I'll bring it back in one piece, JJ," he fumbles around the living room until he finds a notepad and a pen. "I'll even leave him a note."

"No." I repeat.

He starts jogging things down on the paper, then places it on the coffee table. "We'll be back in a couple hours, come on," he wiggles the keys, tempting me. "Maybe even before he's up."

"And go where?" I ask, afraid I'm giving in. What can I say? There's something dangerously fun about this idea, like I've never done anything this bad before. It feels good to break the rules a little.

"And find Michael," his eyes are beaming excitedly, like he knows I'm about to give in to his peer-pressure.

"Why? There's no reason to do that now."

His face darkens. "Yes, there is," he nods. "To find out if he had anything to do with Reid's death." my mouth drops open unintetionally.

"Your not serious, are you?" I ask, blinking.

"Yes." he nods. He's being serious. One-hundred percent serious.

"Morgan, the letter -" he shakes his head, and I shut up right away.

"He didn't write that," he decides.

"It was his -" he cuts me off again by shaking his head.

"I don't believe it," the way he says it, almost convinces me all over again. "I just know Reid. He wouldn't take his life."

I make a face that says I believe otherwise. He sighs, and I can see he's starting to doubt it too, and that makes him look so sad it makes me want to cry. "Will you just please come with me to talk to him?" he looks at his watch. "By the time we go into town, the restaurant should be open."

I stare at him for a second, then drop my arms more or less like, what-can-I-do? I follow him outside and consider writing Hotch another note that says, _I'm sorry._ but I don't. I want to steal a car the right way, the dangerous way, because it feels nice to just live life.

* * *

What I didn't know when I agreed to let Morgan take Hotch's car was that Morgan, when excited, drives kind of like a maniac. And not a good, fun, thrilling maniac. A switching-lanes, almost-getting-us-in-a-head-on kind of maniac. I was holding tight to my seat the whole way.

"Will you calm down?" I shout over the radio. "Michael isn't going anywhere, he works until five."

He gives me a look, smirking. "I just want to get there before too many people come in; it'll be hard to talk to him if customers are everywhere."

Okay, makes sense. But maybe we should get there in one-piece. Or the car, for that matter, like he promised. "Just slow down." I say, almost pleading.

He nods and I watch him drop ten miles on the speedometer, and I ease up a bit. I look down at the leather seats and notice my nails left lines. I hope they won't be permanent.

Morgan slides into the restaurant's parking lot and easily finds a place right upfront, because we did manage to get there before customers. He looks so cool stepping out of the car, sliding on his sunglasses, pulling out his credentials, like we're about to do something really bad-ass. I feel like we're about to play Good Cop, Bad Cop. Guess who's who?

Finding Michael wasn't hard. Only took about two seconds, literally. I recognized him right away from the photos at his parent's house. Of course he was about no younger than thirteen in them, but still. Same blue eyes, same dirty blonde hair color, same shaggy haircut even. As a kid, he was all freckles and cheekbones but now he's more all sharp blue eyes and jawline. We make our way over to him, exchanging glances like we're telepathically having a conversation.

"Excuse me, sir, when your free," Morgan says, as Michael lazily mops the floor behind the counter. I wonder how sanitary this place is. By the way he's cleaning, I'd say not much more than an outside dumpster. Okay, maybe that's harsh.

Michael slops the mop around the floor a few times in a circular motion then props it up against the grungy wall. "What can I get ya?" Michael asks, sighing, crossing his arms.

Morgan gives me a look. I know what he's thinking. I give him one back. Michael seems oblivious to our glances.

Morgan grabs his badge and exposes it to Michael, letting it stay there for Michael to really take it in. I do the same.

Michael just stares at it, unmoved. "Okay, your FBI," he scratches the back of his neck. "Do you expect free food or something?"

"No," Morgan sighs. I know Morgan already has this guy put down as a suspect, maybe even already deemed him as the killer, so I can imagine how hard it is for him to maintain patience. "You used to know Spencer Reid."

Michael makes a certain face. Quickly I scramble to read it, but all that's coming to me is anger, hurt maybe. Not guilt or fear. "Yeah, so?" he asks blandly, his tone sharp.

"And," Morgan swallows, his tone sharp too. "Spencer may have committed suicide."

"Wait a minute," Michael turns around and fumbles with stuff in the backroom, then comes back out carrying a newspaper. "I read about something like that in the paper last week. Some guy who grew up here, who joined the FBI, was found dead in the basement," he squints at us. "Slit wrists, right?"

His blunt honesty takes me back, and I think it just makes Morgan angrier. "Yes, but we're not positive it was suicide."

Michael stares at us blankly. "How could it not be?"

"We're just trying to rule out every possibility," I jump in, seeing Morgan's struggling. "Also, it was very unlike Spencer to kill himself."

Michael still seems unconvinced. "Well, usually suicidal people don't go around talking about it," he drops the paper on the counter and it makes a loud slapping noise. "It's always unexpected when it happens."

Morgan's blood is boiling, I can tell. I see him roll his fists into a ball. "When you knew him, was there anything off about him to you?" Morgan asks, his jaw tightened.

Michael raises his shoulders, then shakes his head. "It's been years, a lot of shit can happen in years, you know?" he looks so convincing. "Anything could have made him fly off the handles."

"So you haven't talked to him in years?" I ask.

Michael shakes his head. "He just took off once he applied to be in the FBI. Guess he got in."

"He just took off?" I give Morgan a worried look. "Do you know why?"

"I have no idea," Michael suddenly is showing emotion. It's definitely hurt. "He was like a brother to me. Why he just left me and my family is beyond me. It's heartless, is what it was."

"I'm sure he had a reason," Morgan retorts.

"Oh yeah?" Michael looks really pissed off now, and I have to touch Morgan's arm to remind him not to punch him. "Can you think of one?"

"Maybe your family did something to him," Morgan blurts.

"Morgan!" I shout, pushing him back a-ways. I look at Michael, who is looking very angry. Suddenly he looks like a totally different person. "We're not actually saying your family is blamed for his death, it's just -"

"A possibility?" Michael shakes his head rapidly. "Not a chance."

"I didn't say that," I stammer. I feel like a big heavy spotlight is cast over me. I didn't prepare for this. "It just doesn't make sense that if he was so close to you and your family, why he'd just run, is all."

"Well if you find out why, I'd love to know; it damn near broke my parent's hearts when he just took off." he snaps that at us then storms off into the backroom, followed by noises of things dropping and clattering to the ground furiously like he was throwing things.

"He's guilty, I can tell." Morgan decides. "He's way too bitter after all of these years."

I'm so exhausted all I can do is sigh and nod. I don't even fight Morgan on it. I just follow him to his next idea, that is more than likely illegal.


	6. Chapter Six

**Author's note: **I've decided to give myself a chapter limit (on this story, not every story.) because or else this will just go on and on and it'll never end ;) So I'm going to end at Chapter 11.

* * *

Morgan leads me to the back of the diner. By now it's freezing outside, and I'm hugging my arms and silently wishing I was smart enough to dress appropriately for the weather. I fantasize about big wool coats and puffy jackets that will wrap around me just right, but my fantasizing stops to a dead halt when the reality of the situation hits me and I realize we're now walking down an alleyway, completely ditching Hotch's car somewhere back by the diner.

"What the hell?" I ask, puffs of my breath shooting off into the air.

He stomps on leaves loudly, crunching them beneath his heavy-duty boots and pushes past old trash cans, and I realize we're stuck between two old buildings. I try to avoid garbage, because I don't mean to sound high-maintenance, because I'm not, but I don't want gum stuck to my boots.

"Morgan," I ask again, my top teeth clacking against my bottom ones. That can't be good for them. "Seriously, what's the plan now?" I'm reluctant to ask.

"I've got an idea," he whispers back to me.

But that isn't enough. I grab onto his arm. My grip on his arm loosens and - very surprisingly - he entwines his fingers into mine, as our speed picks up and now we're practically running through the garbage and the trash cans and the leaves and the cold fall air.

"I'm in high heels!" I nearly scream out, but he doesn't stop. He's practically pulling me, almost dragging me along with him, and I want to ask why we're in such a hurry, but I can't seem to without it all coming out in mumbles.

"Be careful!" he calls out when we nearly get ran over by oncoming traffic as we reach the end of the thin alleyway and land dead smack into the road.

"Be careful?" I shout, shaking his hand off of mine. "_You_ almost got us ran over! Not me!" All the frustration through the last two days comes roaring out furiously, and I keep thinking how ridiculous I sound, but it doesn't slow me down.

He tries to catch his breath from running, and now he's just staring at me blankly, with this expression that's so unfamiliar to me I make a confused face. Or so I feel like I am. "Why the hell did you even bother coming with me?" he yells back.

His tone is sharp and loud and I'm surprised he's making such a scene in the middle of a seemingly quiet neighborhood. I back away a little in hesitance, and for a second it feels I may lose my balance in my unsteady shoes. "What do you mean?" I say, my voice cracking. He really threw me for a loop. He's never really yelled at me before. Not like this. I've heard disappointed, I've heard annoyed, I've heard something maybe close to scolding, but never this. This frightens me.

"Why do you keep following me everywhere if all you're going to do is bitch and whine about how I'm not doing things your way?" he continues to shout.

I back up a little further without really realizing it. "I don't," I imagine saying this completely moving speech that makes him feel sorry for yelling at me, but I've got nothing. "I never said it had to be my way." I mutter back, deflating.

He nods his head and faces the sidewalk, and for a second, I think he's going to just take off, leaving me here freezing my ass off and standing there completely lost and clueless. And for a second I feel like I might reach out and apologize, but I can't, because I don't know what I'd say and I don't know how to even say it.

"Just forget it," he snaps, leaving nothing but another puff of breath that goes into the air like a ring of smoke and then disappears.

"Forget what?" I breathe out, tired and feeling very heavy like I've been dragged. Technically, I have.

"Just everything," he throws his hands up. "Just forget this whole thing. It was a dumb idea."

I don't know what to say. I can't believe his words. Mostly, I can't believe he actually means them. This isn't Derek Morgan. He's always so motivated, so fixated on what's going to happen next and how he's going to make it happen. I'm so sad that I made him this way. I made him give up. My heart feels even heavier now and I'm so taken over with twisting emotions all I want to do is sit on the sidewalk and bring my knees up to my chest and hold myself right there, and then close my eyes and make the world stop spinning around me. I imagine hearing nothing but cars go by every now and then and the wind swoosh by me and the leaves slap together and every now and then a car honk or an alarm go off. I try imagining my life with no certainty, with nothing to prove and nothing to face and no responsibilities, just nothing at all but everything I want to do before I die and it feels comforting. I wish I'd be able to do that. Instead I'm standing here like a stone-cold statue and I'm afraid I can't move my feet. Maybe they're frostbitten.

"Say something." he says to me, breathlessly. I can tell he's freezing, too.

"I don't know what to say," I say honestly, raising my shoulders.

"Let's just go home," he reaches for Hotch's keys buried in his jeans pocket. "Let's just go back to Virgina and," he pauses, then shakes his head at the road. "And just start living again, I guess." he says coldly, like the thought itself seems way out of the picture or even hard to imagine.

"So that's it?" I raise my eyebrows at him. I'm expecting a slap on the arm and a, "Just kidding, JJ!" but deep down I know it's not happening. I have this funny sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, and it feels like I just got my feelings hurt, and I can't even explain why or understand it. But I feel like I just pushed away a really good thing.

"That's it." he declares, digging deeper in his pocket. Suddenly his face pales and his cheeks flush and he looks so distressed, I begin to feel paranoid myself.

"Lose something in there?" I ask.

He reaches his hand in further, then digs in his other pocket, then his back pockets and then he starts patting his legs over completely like he's searching himself.

"Where's Hotch's keys?" I ask him.

He starts patting his shirt too, even though it's a plain black T-shirt and there's no pockets or anything to put anything in. "I think I -" he doesn't finish, he just starts running down the alleyway. God! I'm so exhausted just thinking about following him, but I have to, don't I? I start treading down the alleyway, trying to keep a good speed. I think I'm doing alright. I'm not nearly as fast as Morgan, but he's had practice chasing UnSubs and I'm also in heels, so give me a break.

I finally catch up to him and we're back behind the diner, and his palms are pressed on his knees and he's hunched over, coughing. I touch his back, leaning down to see his face.

"What? Are you okay?" I pat his back softly. "Catch your breath."

He walks kind of limply to the front of the diner and it surprises me to see even I have more energy than him. We reach the parking lot and he sighs, looks at the sky and closes his eyes, muttering something repeatedly that I can't make out.

"What?" I ask frantically. "What is it?"

"Hotch's car," he slams his boot hard on the concrete. "It's not here."

I feel an eerie chill and I scan the parking lot with my eyes. No. No. No. This isn't happening. I feel like slapping Morgan for some reason. Oh, wait, I have a reason. "Why the fuck did you leave the keys in the car?" I scream, full-forced.

He doesn't say much, just swings open the diner door furiously and hops behind the counter, searching everywhere for Michael. Suddenly it's like I'm chained to Morgan: everywhere he goes, I follow, like a lovesick puppy dog or something. It's kind of nauseating if you think about it.

"Fuck!" he yells, rubbing his sweaty forehead.

"Michael took it?" I ask, trying to catch my breath. It's hard. I think I didn't breathe at all all while running.

"Yes!" he yells back, like it's my fault. He reaches for something behind the counter and throws it hard against the wall, and it shatters loudly and breaks. I run behind the counter and try to find the damage, and I see it. It's a clear plate broken to about a million pieces, just laying on the floor sadly.

Without thinking, I grab a plate and throw it to the floor. It feels so good to have my anger released I almost want to do it again and again. Morgan grabs another and throws it. I do the same. Suddenly there's nothing but glass surrounding us and I start crying. I can't think of anything but how screwed up everything is since Reid died. And it's horrible of me, but I hate Reid for it. How dare he leave us. How dare he do this to us. We're both such a mess it's hard to believe we were once stable people. Morgan wraps his arms around me and my first instinct is to pull away because I'm still semi-mad at him, but instead I bury my face into his chest and begin sobbing.

"I miss him." I cry.

He places one hand on my back and the other on the back of my head, gently stroking my hair, consoling me, even though I'm completely snotting up his shirt. "I miss him too." he admits quietly into my ear. And at first I think I'm imagining it, or maybe that there's a hole in the ceiling and rain's coming in, but after the third time I feel something drip in my hair, I realize Morgan is crying too.

The fact that he's crying only makes me cry harder. And the fact that I hate Reid for taking his life makes me cry harder. And the fact that I know I don't really hate Reid makes me cry harder. And the fact that all I want is to say Spence one more time and hear Morgan say Pretty Boy makes me cry harder.

For a while, he holds me. And for a little while it feels like the world has stopped spinning and nothing is permanent and I can do anything and it doesn't really matter because I'm living. And Reid's not. And that makes me cry that much harder.

* * *

Morgan and I are sitting outside of the diner, me perched up on a bench that was randomly placed behind the diner; probably where employees go to smoke or hang out on break. I'm kicking a half-eaten apple and a McDonald's crushed soda cup as Morgan stares at his phone tentatively.

"Are you going to call?" I ask. I catch a glance of my face in a metal part of the dumpster in front of us and I see my mascara is smeared and my lipstick is wiped off, and my cheeks are bright red from the freezing cold. I almost don't recognize myself at first.

He hesitates for a little longer, pacing. "What am I going to say?" he ponders. "'Oh, Hotch, I know you're probably wondering where the hell your car is. Yeah, see, about that... it got stolen. I promise I'll find it!'" I can tell he's being sarcastic, but it doesn't sound all that bad to me.

"Just call him." I say, leaning against the cold bench. "It's now or never." That line sounds so cheesy coming out of my mouth.

He shoots me a look. "Gimme a minute," he says. I do. We wait about five minutes to be exact, and then he finally gets up the guts to dial his number, then inhales a tight breath and sits beside me. Anything to stop his consistent pacing.

Before Morgan can say a word, I hear squeakiness pouring through the speakers of his phone and I can tell Hotch is yelling.

Morgan gives me a look. I feel so bad for him. He pulls the cell from his ear and puts it on speakerphone.

"What the hell, Morgan? What were you thinking? I had to get a ride from Rossi," he pauses. Morgan and I share a glance. "FROM ROSSI." he shouts louder.

I don't know what to say. We just listen.

"Do you know what Rossi keeps in his car?" another pause. "I don't either! I just know it smells unsanitary!"

There's muffling sounds in the background and then a faint sound of Rossi saying something snarky to him. I can't help it, I have to put my mouth on Morgan's shoulder to keep from laughing out-loud. Morgan's laughing, too.

"It's not that bad!" Rossi yells, his voice finally coming out clearly. "He's exaggerating!" he says, his voice now sounding clear as day like he's speaking directly into the phone.

"Gimme that!" Hotch snaps, his voice sounds distant, until he grabs the phone back from Rossi. "Where the hell is my car, Morgan?" at least he sounds calmer now.

"It's," he gives me a look. "It's with us. It's being taken care of, don't worry." I raise my eyebrows. I'm truly surprised at how good of a liar he really is.

Hotch breathes a sigh of relief. "Really?"

"Oh, yes, definitely," he nods so positively, I almost believe him, if it weren't for me, you know, witnessing it missing. "It's definitely in great condition." he gives me a thumbs-up for some reason, and I burst out laughing.

"What was that? Is someone choking?" Hotch asks, suddenly all paranoid.

He pats my back and smiles at me. "Look, Hotch, we've gotta go. I promise we'll talk to you later," he looks like he's about to hang up, then pauses. "And I'm sorry."

Hotch just sighs. "Yeah, well."

"Bye," his thumb hovers over the End button, ready to click off. "Bye Rossi." then hangs up before anyone can say anything else. He leans back in the bench, looking tired. All I can notice is the way the muscles in his forearm are twitching. Kind of odd-looking. I stop thinking about that and look up at him. His eyes are watching the sky. I mimic him; laying back on the bench, looking up at the sky. The sky is a duller shade of light blue. It's got a strong gray tint to it. It's gotta be one of the most depressing colors out there.

Clouds are in funny shapes today. One kind of looks like a distorted heart if you focus hard enough on it, and another looks like a dog taking a piss. For a while, we sit there, pointing out clouds like we're six years-old again and we have nothing better to do. It feels nice to just do something so simple. No serial killers. No violence. No bloody wrists. Just this.

"We should find Michael." Morgan finally says, so quietly, and it's like putting a curse on such a pleasant moment.

I sit up, brushing off my jeans. "What should we do next?"

He shakes his head, then his phone starts ringing again. He pulls it out and once he looks at the caller ID, he gives it a funny look.

"Hotch again?" I guess.

"No," he answers it without telling me. "Diana." he speaks into the phone.

Reid's mother. I'm not surprised to hear from her. Okay, I kind of am, but I also kind of assumed she'd want in on the details. Morgan puts it on speakerphone again, after a few times of me tapping his arm and whispering, _What's she saying?_

"-I want to help in any way I can." she says, finishing off a long sentence.

"We appreciate that," Morgan says in his kindest voice. "But there's not much us we can do right now."

"Have you spoken to the Clevelands?" she asks.

Now this surprises me.

"Yeah, how'd you know?" he asks her.

"Because they called the hospital, giving me their condolences. They seemed friendly about it," she doesn't seem upset. We hear muffling noises and we just sit there, anxiously awaiting her next words. "Is it true?"

We pause. It feels like my heart stands still. "Is what true?" Morgan asks.

"The note," she sighs. "Did he really leave a note?"

Morgan gives me the saddest look. I think of the lines, _I'd be sent away, just like my mother. _Would that line hurt her? I'm not sure how I'd react to that. He doesn't exactly speak very highly of institutionalized people.

"Yes," he says very slowly. "But we're still not one-hundred percent it was by him."

"Is it his handwriting?" she sounds eager all of a sudden. "I can read it if it'd help; I know his handwriting. He's written me so many times."

"No, no, that's not wise," he advises quickly. I want to say something, but I can't think of what to say. What could possibly help her now? "You see, it is his handwriting...but it's possible he was maybe held against his will." What? When did we discuss this? I guess I didn't really ever think of the alternative. It was just a matter of, he wrote it or he didn't write it. Simple as that.

He gives me a look that says, what-can-I-do? "You think that's what happened?" she sounds sad again. "I don't understand."

"Neither do I." I mutter, but not loud enough for her to hear. Honestly, I don't get what's going on right now. There's solid proof, as much proof as we're ever going to need, to convince ourselves that it was suicide. But still. We're still going along with the murder story. Why?

"Diana, when we learn a little bit more about the situation, I promise we'll give you a call." I'm not sure that's a promise he wants to keep.

She sighs, hesitant, then reluctantly agrees. "Okay." I can tell she's not happy with it, though.

"I'll talk to you soon," he says casually. "Bye."

"Why are we telling her this bullshit story?" I say almost immediately after he hangs up. "It's obvious it was suicide."

His face darkens and he stares at me for a long while. It feels strange having someone stare at you for so long. I feel like I need to pick my teeth or fix my hair or kick him in the leg. "What?" I say kind of snappishly.

"You really think it's suicide?" he says this like he can't believe it. I mean, come on!

"I don't want to, but let's be rational here," I realize I sound like Hotch right now. "All signs point to yes, it was suicide."

"Yeah, except one big important sign that says, 'No way in hell Reid would do this.'" I think I need sleep, because that didn't make much sense to me. I shake it off. I'm too tired to fight him on it. And honestly, I'm so tired of this whole we like each other then decide to hate each other roller coaster we've been on that I'm too exhausted to shift gears.

I collect my hands on my lap. "So, now what? We have no car, we have no idea where Michael went off with it," I stare at him blankly like I expect him to have all of the answers. Well... "Now what?"

"Now you go home and talk this over with Will," he declares, like it's already decided. He rises to his feet. "I'll call Garcia, have her track Hotch's license plate, botta-bing botta-boom, his car is back."

I raise my eyebrows. It sounds perfect. Except...when does anything ever go that smoothly? "You think that'll work?" I ask reluctantly.

He nods. "Absolutely," he gives me a fake-smile. I can see right through it. "Now go home and get some sleep."

"And how do we get home, exactly?" I ask him, following him around the corner and back into the street.

"A cab?" he suggests.

"Yeah, good luck with that." I pat his back jokingly. But I'm actually being serious. I haven't hailed a cab in forever. I don't know how easy that's going to be.

* * *

I walk in my door. The house is as quiet as I can ever remember it being. Will didn't leave a note, but I know he isn't here. And if no one's here, neither is Henry. I pick up leftover toys that Henry left lying around and toss them at another part of the room. Confession? When I'm really lazy or alone, I kind of clean up in a really sloppy way. Whatever. No one can see me. I fall down on the sofa and the remote is directly under my butt, poking me. I push it out of the way and it hits the floor loudly. I bury my face into the throw pillow and toss the throw blanket over my head and back. It feels like my head's pounding and I can't seem to get it to stop by wishing it away.

I find myself thinking, what was so wrong in Reid's life it had to come to this? Why couldn't he tell us about it? Why wasn't there writing on a wall? There weren't really many signs at all. It's so frustrating to think that we could've saved him. I can just see us: reaching out and grabbing him, stopping him from doing this, but my mind always drifts to the same thought. He disappears in thin air and we're left standing wondering how this happened in such a short time.

I hear crumpling underneath my leg and stupidly, I squish it harder, hoping it'll just vanish. The crumpling eventually gets to me. I jump up and pick the paper up into my hands, about to tear it to bits, but I catch my eyes glancing across the page.

_You shouldn't have started this. I kept my distance because I was afraid I'd snap. You caused this. I was getting better. I'm sorry._

My head is spinning and I'm so confused I can't put two and two together. I just keep reading.

_I'm sorry that you're next. Maybe you'll get to see Reid. Maybe that's what happens when you die. I'm sorry to have to do this. I'm sorry I had to do it to Diana._

My heart stops. Then it speeds up and pulses hard in my chest and I'm so nervous my hands begin trembling uncontrollably.

_I'm just sorry I am this way._

And the letter ends. I throw the letter to the ground and charge over to the phone on the wall, tearing it off the wall so fast it slips from my hands and clatters to the floor. I sit on my knees, shoving the battery back in the holder so fast I might bust the battery itself, then dial Morgan's number as quick as I can.

"Morgan!" I scream into the phone. "I got a letter in my house!"

"Calm down," he coaches me. I'm trying to steady my breathing. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe, damn you! "What'd it say?"

"I think it's by Michael, I think he did something to Diana."

There's a long tortuous pause. "I'm going to call the hospital now." a soft clicking noise takes over the phone and the phone goes silent, and I know Morgan's put me on hold.

I can't breathe. My stomach feels like I might throw up. But from the across room, I spot something. Something that sends chills up and down my spine I feel freezing cold. I rise to my feet, though my legs are shaking violently and any minute I might vomit. I'm still holding the phone to my ear, but I'm afraid to hear Morgan speak.

I walk closer to the counter and there lies a bloody butcher knife with another note. I can't read it. I drop the phone and I scream. I scream like I've never screamed before. I can't think about who's blood it is. Diana's? Will's? My throat closes and I'm so washed with panic I start having an anxiety attack, and now I really can't breathe. Is it Henry's? The room turns foggy and the fogginess somehow relaxes me, yet the queasiness intensifies, and then the whole world turns dark.


	7. Chapter Seven

I wake up. The sound of police sirens and chaos around me fills my ears. I blink rapidly at the ceiling. My ceiling. The ceiling that hovers above me and my family day after day. The bright light above the counter looks like a flashlight doctors shine in your eyes.

The sirens go quiet. The room feels still. And for the life of me, I can't remember what I'm doing on the floor. I sit up, rubbing the back of my head, that is throbbing rhythmically.

Morgan comes storming in, swinging the front door open like it's made of paper, and then runs right to my side. Crouching to my height, he touches my arm. "JJ, are you alright?" he's panting in my face and his forehead is glistening from sweat.

I must look so dumbfounded. "I don't know what I'm doing on the floor." I blink at my legs, that feel shaky, like before I fainted, I was a bundle of nerves. I cup the back of my head and wince in pain. It hurts like hell, but I try to block it out.

"You must've fainted," he says, nodding to the counter, his eyes wide and laced with deep concern. All I can think is, _I could have told you that. _"You hung up on me and I freaked out, so I drove over here. Did something else happen?"

His words bring me back to reality. The pain in the back of my brain softens a little, and I attempt to stand up, though my legs and ankles feel all wobbly and unsettled.

All at once, in a frightening blink of an eye, I am reminded of what happened: Walking in. Collapsing on my couch, exhausted from all of my running around. Finding the note. Reading it, panicking, racing to the telephone. Ripping the telephone from the receiver. Calling Morgan, barely able to say what I wanted to say. Him calling Diana. Me waiting impatiently. Me seeing the bloody butcher knife laying on the counter. The second note.

A bolt of energy ignites me somehow and I shoot up, completely pushing through the wobbliness of my unsteady legs. My head pounds and my hands start trembling again as I reach forward and slide the second note over to me. I can't read it. My hands are shaking so bad the paper is crinkling and I'm creating lines all over it and any second now it's going to rip in two.

"Let me," Morgan says, taking it gently from my hands. I nod at him in gratitude.

He takes in a breath that sounds nervous going in, like he himself can't remain calm. I need to do something before I pass out again. I'm freaking myself out so badly I'm afraid I might give myself a heart attack. I can only imagine what it'll do to me if I receive horrible news.

His eyes look over the paper, going left and right super-fast, but his expression stays the same. I can't decide if that's good or not.

"What's it say?" I ask, finally getting enough courage to speak an actual sentence.

He glances at me momentarily, then reads it over, this time out loud.

_You see this knife? This knife belongs to you... what is your name again? I didn't catch it when you and that other FBI agent came to visit me at my workplace. My bad. Where are my manners?_

I want to hurt this guy so bad. The arrogance in his letter alone enrages me. Inside, I'm boiling to the point I just might break.

I decide I'm not patient enough to hear the whole letter straight-through. "Did he hurt Henry?" I blurt out, my voice suddenly transforming from scared to death to ready to kill.

Morgan shakes his head solemnly. "No, at least, it doesn't say he did," he gives the paper one long look. "Actually, it doesn't say he hurt anyone."

I feel my whole body release the tension; like every bone in my body curled and cramped up and now it was finally releasing the pressure. "I don't get it." I shake my head. I really don't get it. What's Michael's plan here? Just to scare us?

"I think I do," he says, folding up the letter very neatly and placing it in his back-pocket. Then he sighs and his face goes dark and cold. "I wish Reid was here. He'd know what to do."

I could just picture Reid explaining why the way he writes is angry or impudent. Then again, if it weren't for Reid being dead, we wouldn't be here.

"Call Will," Morgan says, sounding calmer now. It relaxes me that at least _he's_ feeling more relaxed. "Garcia should be calling back any minute with the location of Hotch's car."

I want to say that I'm sure Michael isn't stupid; I'm sure he ditched Hotch's car long ago, but I don't bother saying anything at all. What good would it do me now?

I stand with my back up against the cool wall and one by one, taking a breath with each button I press, I call Will's cell phone. I press it to my ear and pray to God that he answers. If it goes straight to voicemail, I might start crying.

Sure enough, it does. _Hey, you've reached William LaMontagne. I'm sorry I couldn't get to this in time; leave a message and your phone number and I'll call you back as soon as I can. Thanks._

I try not to freak. It isn't easy. I close my eyes and I choke on the lump at the very bottom of my throat that's making it hard to inhale without feeling an uncomfortable sore feeling. I think about Reid.

One time, on a jet ride back to Quantico, after reading _What to Expect When You're Expecting, _I started panicking about labor. Not just about the physical pain of it; but the difficulties that can come with birth, for both you and the child. I remember picturing everything under the sun that could go wrong. Which, turns out, is a _lot_.

Anyway, Reid came over to me, despite the fact that everybody was already asleep and he could have just as easily propped his pillow up on the sofa and pretended that he was just another sleeping passenger. He sat down in front of me and asked what was wrong. I gave him a halfhearted smile and said, "I'm worried about the baby. I never knew birth could be so terrifying. All you ever hear about is the pain, like that's all that happens."

Reid paused, then smiled at me. I remember this because the smile instantly soothed my nerves. He'd said to me, "Don't even think about it, it won't do you any good," then he looked at my belly, which was about six months out, and grinned. "It's a little late to back out now."

That made me laugh, I recall. I try to put myself back in that place. Smiling, rubbing my pregnant belly and feeling Henry's lively body moving inside of me, and feeling content right then. But I can't. Then I try to remember what else he'd told me.

"I know that, Spence," I had said to him, snarling a little bit.

My comment hadn't broken his smile, though. "You know what you should do?" he'd said to me. "When in labor for this little guy, or during the rest of the pregnancy for that matter, when you start having a moment where you feel like your freaking out, think of something and focus only on that."

I remember giving him a look. "That's easier said than done, Spence." I'd said.

He shook his head. "Not really; not for me it isn't, anyway." he'd said. "All you have to do is think of something. Like what are your favorite cereals and or what names you'd like if you were having a daughter, or what cities you'd like to visit someday."

I remember not believing him. Then, he'd came up with an idea. "Just try it real quick." he'd said.

I figured I'd had nothing to lose. I remember sighing, sitting up straighter in my seat and putting my hands on my belly, feeling like Henry was giving me strength. "What names do you like for a girl?" Reid asked me.

At the time, I was still a bundle of nerves. "I don't know, Reid." I'd said.

"Just try it, please?" his eyes were asking me to. I couldn't say no.

"Fine," I thought it was a dumb idea, really. I thought it wouldn't work. "I like Ella."

"Ella's nice," Reid said. "Keep going. What else?"

"Uhm," I started thinking hard and for a long while, actually completely concentrating all of my brain function on this one thought. "Andrea, Brooke, Denise, Maria..."

I'd ended up sprouting off name after name; I'd named enough names to have repeated the alphabet at least three times. And sure enough, Reid was right. I was completely relaxed. My mind was just telling me things I couldn't control. Or at least, I thought I couldn't control it.

I close my eyes, holding the phone, trying to get up enough strength to try Will again. _Elizabeth, Olivia, Gabrielle..._

I dial and call him, and it rings. One ring. My heart is calming now. Two rings. I steady my breathing. Three rings. My heart starts racing again. Four rings. My heart is pounding. _Ariana, Trisha..._

_Click. _"Hello?"

An answer. My heart stops pounding and it actually feels like it's melting. I'm so relieved to hear his voice - his voice sounding calm, as well - I feel tears stream down my face. "Will?" I know I'm doing a horrible job at masking my crying over the phone. Right now, I don't care; I can't care. "Are you with Henry?"

"Yeah," he says. My heart has that melting feeling again. It's probably getting adjusted to a normal heart rate again. "Are you crying?"

I wipe my left cheek with the back of my hand. "I'm fine," I say, sniffling. "I have to go, I just wanted to make sure you're both okay." Though I know I sound hysterical right now, I have to say this before hanging up. "I love you."

"I love you too, babe," he sounds worried. I'm not surprised. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yes," I nod. "Tell Henry I love him, too."

"I will." and with that promise and that thought locked in my mind, I hang up knowing that whatever happens next, the worst is out of the way.

* * *

I meet Morgan outside. The car's revved up and the heat is on full blast. Morgan doesn't seem the least bit annoyed that I'd taken longer than we both expected.

"Is he alright?" he asks me the second I slide in the passenger seat.

I shut the door. "Yeah, they're both fine. What about Diana? Did you reach the hospital?" I had forgotten about asking about her. The relaxing melt-y feeling I felt earlier is layered underneath concern.

"The receptionist I'd spoken to said she was taking a nap and was not to be disturbed," he informs me.

I wait for something else. When he says nothing, and just pulls out of my driveway and starts driving down the street, I become uneasy again. "And this means, what exactly?" I ask.

"I don't think they bothered checking up on her," he says. I know where he's going next.

"I'm sure they have plenty of security on that place. I mean, it's not like just anyone can sneak into her room and kill her without being noticed."

He doesn't say much for a little. But when he does talk, I wish he didn't say anything at all, because it spikes my nerves all over again. He says, "We were able to be alone in her room with her for at least twenty-five minutes," he pauses, making a right, picking up the speed. "How long does it take to kill someone when cutting their wrists?"

He doesn't wait for me to answer. "Not very long." he says.

I watch the street signs pass by us. Then, as we reach the heart of the city, I watch mini-markets and stores and fast-food drive-ins pass by us. Then we reach the highway.

"We're going to find Michael, aren't we?" I ask.

He stays quiet, as he passes by cars, going ten over the speed limit. "Yes, we are." he eventually confesses.

I don't know how this makes me feel. I can't really decide. I want to know if Diana's alright, and I certainly want to know whose blood it is on the knife, but I don't think it's a good idea to tackle Michael all on our own. It seems foolish, actually.

"Should we really be doing this by ourselves?" I ask, nervously. I start biting on the tip of my thumb.

"What do you mean? Of course we should be," he says nonchalantly. "Do you really want to get everybody else involved? It's best we just catch this guy all by ourselves."

I beg to differ, Morgan. I'm scared it's going to get us killed.

Thunder roars above our vehicle and the vehicles in a line streaming by us on the highway, and then rain starts drenching our windshield, making the visibility very mild. I sit there, imagining us getting butchered by Michael with a kitchen knife. I start shaking again.

"Are you cold?" he asks, flicking the heat up on high again.

I shake my head. I try not to give myself a panic attack. I close my eyes, listen to the rain clatter on the hood of the car and think, _Diana, Julie, Cheyenne..._


	8. Chapter Eight

**Author's note: **I kind of got choked up writing this. Well, not choked up, exactly... more like, on the verge of getting choked up? Which I take as a good sign. I want it to be emotional and heartfelt. I hope I achieved that for you guys.

P.S. Being sick totally sucks.

* * *

We've arrived at the hotel that supposedly Michael has taken Hotch's car to. Apparently Michael wasn't lying, because the second we pull into the parking lot, there is Hotch's car, sitting lonesomely alongside several other vehicles that look abandoned. Morgan parks at the very end of the parking lot; the only spot in the whole place that it isn't full of cars who had gotten here first.

"What's the plan?" I ask. Then it occurs to me, when I instinctively reach for my gun, that my gun is at home. Genius, JJ, brilliant. However, I do have my credentials.

Morgan notices this and says, "Don't worry, I brought mine."

I'm mostly relieved. I mean, it's better than not having any weapon at all. What if this turns into trouble? I'm already predicting trouble. But Morgan, in this state of mind, maybe shouldn't be the gun-holder; I'm scared to ask if I can hold it for him. Morgan's attitude is troubling me. It's hard to tell if he's going to bite your head off or be sweet to you.

He opens the car door and very stealthily, we run through the parking lot and into the hotel lobby. Automatically, we're met with a girl at the desk. She has a false-thrilled smile plastered on her face and bright green eyes that look too cheery. Either she's getting paid double for being fake-nice to people, or she smoked something on her break; no one is that happy. Especially not at a sleazy hotel like this one.

"Excuse me, miss," Morgan says, all-charm. "We're looking for a person who probably checked in here about an hour or so ago." Instantly, he pulls out his FBI credentials and I do the same.

The girl's green eyes haze over our badges and then nods, her smile instantly going down to a sourly look, which I'm assuming is her natural face. It's actually more flattering than the phony one she had on previously. Much more lifelike. "Who are you looking for?" she asks us, kind of dully, like we're bothersome.

Morgan's charming attitude doesn't wither. He puts one elbow up on the desk and leans forward. "His name is Michael Cleveland," he faces the window and points to Hotch's black car. "He pulled in with that car right there."

She stands on her tippy-toes, eyes the car and nods. "Is he in some sort of trouble?" she looks kind of concerned, but it's hard to tell if it's real concern or it's her just being phony again. The way she's acting, I doubt she cares if this place went up in flames.

"We just need to find him," I insist. I hate to be impatient, but why beat around the bush? We need to find Michael. Not ten minutes from now, or fifteen minutes from now, _right now._ "What room is he staying in?"

She makes a kind of groaning noise like it's killing her to walk two feet to the computer and starts typing stuff up, popping gum in her mouth noisily. I'm trying not to be a bitch here. Really, it's an effort not to be. Something about this woman just gets to me.

"He's staying in room 201." As soon as she gives us this information, we run up the carpeted staircase and Morgan brings out his gun. We finally reach the door, and my heart is pounding.

* * *

"Should you stay out here?" he whispers to me.

I consider this momentarily. Let's think about this for a second: Wait outside, and do nothing but pace back and forth and listen for every single sound, thinking maybe any sound could be Michael dead. Or Morgan. Or go inside, unarmed, and duck behind Morgan if things get chaotic. I think both sound pretty ridiculous and not thought out well enough.

I take in a breath that feels uneasy and whisper back to him, "I'm going in." like it's a secret mission that we concocted together and we have to speak very hush-hush about it. Well... it sort of is and we sort of have to.

He pauses, clutching his gun, aiming it directly to the door, and glances at me, as I'm crouched halfway and hidden behind him. Lucky for me, he's a pretty big guy to hide behind and I'm a pretty small girl.

"Are you sure?" he asks me, still careful to keep very quiet. "I don't want things to get out of hand."

Neither do I. "They won't," I insist. "Right?"

He doesn't look so sure. "If Michael starts getting loud, I want you to leave the room, you got me?"

I nod right away. "Absolutely." I agree immediately.

"And if he's armed?" he's asking me something. I'm not sure what he wants to hear.

"I leave then, too?" I try.

"But be stealth about it, leave very subtly. If you can't get out, hide behind me." I nod in agreement once again. I think it sounds like a decent plan. Besides, if all else fails...well, I don't know what I'll do. Hopefully I'll be able to keep it together.

Though I've heard it countless times, the sound frightens me so much I jump back a little. Morgan raises his leg high and dives his thick-heeled boot right into the door, charging inside the second it viciously swings open. I follow behind cautiously, still sort of crouching. The back of my kneecaps begin to cramp but I'm afraid if I stand up totally straight, something'll hit me. Even though Michael's no where in sight.

Morgan heads for the bathroom, then comes out with his gun still in his hand, but lowered to his side. "He's not here." I can hear the despair in his voice. But my body relaxes. This is upsetting him tremendously, but I'm relieved. I really didn't want to die tonight.

"Do you think he knew that we knew where he was?" I ask. Not that it really matters.

He shrugs, puts both hands on his hips and scans the room like there might be one last hiding place we missed. "Is there a closet somewhere?" I shout excitedly. I really think I thought of something.

Morgan shakes his head. "There was a dresser in the bathroom; he's not in it."

I know this is horrible of me, but all I can think is: _Why is there a dresser in the bathroom?_ I sit on the bed, sighing. I'm so tired. I can't be thinking of sleeping right now. But here I am, sitting on a creaky bed with a stiff mattress and all I want to do is curl up and fall asleep, even though the hotel is very cheap and sleazy.

Morgan sits beside me. "I really thought we'd have him," I can tell this is really getting to him. I don't know what to say. Do I hug him? Do I tell him that I understand? Do I suggest just giving up?

"At least we have Hotch's car," I say, trying to be helpful. What else can I say? Besides that, we've got nothing else.

He nods solemnly. "Yeah, I guess we have that." he says quietly.

I stare straight ahead. At the blank TV screen. At the little TV box on the shelf beneath the TV, in bright green text telling us the time. I spot a tape sitting on the TV box. "Maybe we've got something else." I say, standing up, picking up the VHS tape. I didn't know people still watched VHS.

"It must be Michael's," he concludes, taking it from my hands; he's getting too excited about this. "It has to be, right?"

"It could be." The tone in my voice sounds hopeful, but I'm really not; I'm scared he's setting himself up to get brokenhearted again.

He crouches down at eye-level with the TV box and slides the tape in carefully, and it clicks softly, then I hear it winding. He stands up, searches for the remotes and turns it on. Like we're putting on a movie to watch together, we both sit back on the bed and wait for the winding to stop and the screen to show something, anything.

My heart races in my chest. What if it's him killing Reid? Suddenly I feel panic rise in my chest and I feel a panic attack coming on. Could we handle it? No, we couldn't. I want to grab the remote from him and say that we're not ready. I can't. Morgan would kill me. He'd tie me up and watch the video himself he's so determined.

"Morgan," I say, my voice hesitant and soft but serious. He looks my way, frowning slightly. I can tell he's scared too. My eyes meet his and I feel something warm meet my hand, and then I feel his fingers slide through mine seamlessly. I close my eyes and finally I catch my breath. I squeeze his hand when the winding stops, and the silence in the two seconds between the winding stopping and the tape playing, sounds piercingly loud and it feels chilly in here.

Something appears on the screen. A room. Maybe it's Reid's bedroom, I can't really tell. The only reason I think it's Reid's room is because I recognize the poster in the back. I can't take my eyes from the screen.

My breath catches in my throat and holds it there, staying perfectly still. It's hard to grasp for it as my throat feels sore, and I realize I want to cry. Reid sits down on the edge of his bed, and he looks perfectly healthy. His typically messy long hair almost touching his shoulders, his sweater-vest and dress shirt fitting perfect on him. He relaxes his elbows on his knees and leans forward. My lips start quivering, because I'm trying not to cry, but I'm drawing more attention to myself because I'm not quivering quietly.

Morgan doesn't look my way; he just holds my hand tighter. I'm afraid to see what he looks like right now.

Reid intakes a long breath and closes his eyes. He's hard to read. Is he upset? Is he ready to let go? This is Reid in his last moments. I'm scared I'll see him differently. This must mean it was suicide, right? Maybe Michael is innocent. But why would Michael have this tape? My head is trying to put together so many thoughts at once it feels it's overloading.

He looks down at the floor, and finally he speaks. His voice sounds raw and tired and indeed, ready to let go. He swipes his hand above his lip and then holds it there for a second, as he stares off to the side of the room in complete silence. "You guys," he finally looks at the camera. I almost want to look away. I feel like he can see me. I feel like I should respond back. I feel like running to the screen, holding both sides of the TV and say, "You shouldn't leave us! We need you!" but I know it's useless. He'll just keep talking and he won't hear me. He's already gone. Still, it's hard to imagine. He looks so real.

He looks down at his hands, which are closed together. "You guys must have _so_ many questions." His lips are quivering too, I think. "I know this video and the letter I left isn't nearly enough. You guys deserve _so _much better. I couldn't imagine if it were one of you leaving me like this; I don't know how it'd make me feel. Would I hate you for it? Maybe I would. Would you hate me for it? _Will _you hate me for it? Perhaps."

No, we wouldn't. We don't. At least, I don't. But maybe that's because we still don't believe it. Would Morgan hate him for it? I'm not so sure.

He lets out a short laugh when he's looking down. The laugh sounds scared and distant. His eyes are dark and he looks so far away. Now he's as far away as anyone could possibly be. "This sounds so cliche. You know, I practiced these lines repeatedly in my head a lot. What I'd say to each and every one of you. Not just before I," he pauses. "Before I made this decision. I mean, before _before. _We've had so many close-calls in the past; each and every one of us have put our lives at risk in one way or another. I imagined telling you guys what you mean to me if I ever was on my death bed. Scary thought, huh?" the distant, short laugh returns. He looks like he wants to cry, but something registers in his eyes; he's so sure of this decision it's frightening. Like he really wanted this. Like he was suicidal.

He looks up, behind the camera, and his eyes land on something. He swallows and then looks down. The softness in his eyes fades away. Was that it? Was that when he decided he was going through with it? I picture a knife laying on his dresser; shiny and the blade sharp. I can see him reaching for it, his hands shaking, and when he grabs it, he puts it to his arm. I close my eyes. I'm scared I'll see him do it. When I open my eyes, all I see is him sitting on his bed still.

"I should probably hurry this up, so I don't keep you guys here all day." he fidgets in his seat and pushes his long hair behind his ears. He licks his lips and his eyes meet the camera lens. "I just want to say that I love you. I love you, Hotch. I love you, Morgan. I love you, JJ." I try to swallow the lump in my throat, but instead tears come streaming down my face and the lump remains the same size. "I love you, Prentiss. I love you, Garcia." he thinks of something, and he smiles a sad little smile. "Your G-man," he chuckles at this, then sniffles; he's crying. My heart and chest feels like a hundred pounds. He chuckles again, almost silently to himself. "Pretty Boy," he's looking down at his knees, thinking back on our nicknames. "Spence." My heart feels like it's breaking.

I sniffle loudly. I'm not even trying to pretend I'm holding it together. Screw it. I need to mourn for him.

"I love you, Rossi. Don't think I forgot about you," he smirks a little. "You too, Gideon."

He begins picking at something on his comforter. With the back of his hand, he wipes away a tear. "My mother, as well. I love you. You taught me to be strong. I wanted so bad to be strong." he then pauses and adds, "Actually, I think I am strong. I'm strong enough to make this decision. All by myself."

He looks sure of himself all over again. Then he sits back up, suddenly confident. "I'm not scared," he shakes his head. "You shouldn't be either. Not for me, anyway. I can't ask you not to care. It's maybe selfish of me, but I hope you do. I hope I mean something to you. I think I do."

I hear Morgan stifle something that sounded like a cough or a snort or, I don't know, really. It's the first noise he's made since we sat down.

"I held on for this long for you guys and you guys only. I hope the only memory you think of me is good. I hope when you hear my name, you smile. I hope you didn't find me. I hope you don't hate me. But if you do, that's just as well."

"You can't understand; maybe you never will. I just hope you understand I wouldn't have wanted it any other way. Consider it," he pauses, faces the ceiling. "Taking one for the team." he nods. "It's best I was the one to leave."

He stands up, and the TV goes black. Soon, static fills the screen. Morgan and I are just staring at it. The static hurts my eyes.

He eventually turns the TV off, and his hand leaves mine. He doesn't know what to say. I was hoping he'd be the first to talk.

I wipe my cheeks until I rub them raw and they turn bright red. Morgan stands up, walks into the bathroom silently. I wait on the bed.

I hear the faucet go on. Water streaming into the sink. Then I hear something slam hard on the porcelain sink. Morgan's fist, I presume. Then I hear a groaning noise, that sounds kind of like an aggravated scream. Then I hear a sniffle. My heart feels heavy. I don't want to hear it. I can't take him crying, too. He's supposed to be strong for me. The fauct goes off. The room goes silent. He walks back out, like he didn't think I heard it.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Author's note: **Parkridge Hospital is actually a real hospital I have around here, that's where I got the name.

* * *

I wait until Morgan collects himself before I speak another word. I feel like I'm in no position to say anything. And for that matter, what do I even say? Nothing can help him. Not until we catch Michael. Despite the video and the letter and all the neon signs pointing directly to the one thing that's been in front of our eyes all along, Morgan still has Michael handpicked as the guilty one. Not Reid for taking his life. Michael's the cause of the hole in our team. Michael's all to blame. I'm not so sure.

I try to think of something positive to say. But truth be told, there's nothing positive about this situation in the slightest bit. Let's say Reid did take his life; we don't win. Let's say Michael took Reid's life; we still don't win. I guess when death is involved, you never really win. Ever. Even when the person responsible is being held accountable and being punished, you still don't win a damn thing. Maybe justice. But that fades away in time.

I'm so happy to hear him make a sound. And I'm starting to wish we were in another room. Any room. This small hotel room feels like it's closing in on me. Maybe it's my imagination, but I think the gaudy floral print on the wall is beginning to move and take different shapes. I think it's my imagination. Either way, the room is making me claustrophobic.

"I don't know what to do now," He mutters with a single lonely breath. I've been waiting for him to speak so long it feels like hours have passed, but now that he's said something, I feel even more lost than before. I touch his shoulder, his back turned to me.

"We'll figure it out." I say reassuringly. Though I myself am completely dumbfounded on what there is to do next. What's the right thing to do? Honestly, I feel like we ditched the right thing to do a long time ago.

"How do you know?" he asks me. He really wants to know. Now I _really_ don't know what to tell him. Maybe if I start crying he'll leave me alone.

"I don't." I reply honestly.

Morgan finally turns and faces me. His eyes are slanted funny like he's been lacking sleep and now he truly looks exhausted and drained. "Do you really think Reid killed himself?" he stares hard into my eyes, like he's daring me. "Be honest."

I feel shaky underneath his spotlight. I'm afraid if I be honest he'll go insane. "Honestly?" I ask, my voice hesitant. He nods slowly. "I don't know what to think. I mean, is it really that bizzare to think he did it?"

I'm expecting him to interrupt me and instantly say, _Yes! _But he allows me to finish. He really wants to know the truth. He doesn't want to just hear what he wants to hear, he wants to hear _my_ thoughts.

"Reid was always really quiet and for the most part, kept to himself. He's had a lot of issues with people in the past and his own battles in his personal life. Maybe they were more extreme than we ever guessed." As I'm saying the words, I'm realizing how real they sound. I didn't know I thought this way until right now.

Morgan looks like he's convinced. "I just don't want to believe it." he says quietly.

I nod. "I get that."

He shakes his head, then passes by me, his shoulder brushing against mine, careful not to bump me too hard, and sits on the dirty bed. I'm reluctant, but since I've already sat on it anyway, I sit beside him.

"What is it about this?" I ask him. "It's really getting to you."

He faces the stained carpet, hunched over, his elbows propped on his knees. "Reid was my best friend, you know? I mean, we were best friends. We hung out a lot. Outside of work. I'd never really had a buddy like that growing up, someone who always had my back."

I had no idea him and Reid were so close. I knew they joked around a lot...

"I think the thing that's getting to me the worst is that I took him for granted," he says, playing with his hands as he talks. He still looks at the carpet. I'm looking at the side of his face, reading his body language. To me, it says he's nervous and uneasy and scared to tell me the truth. But I'm not Reid. Reid's better at body language. I'm not a profiler. "I always played around with him. You know, 'Oh, Kid, you think you're so smart, but you can't get a date,' stuff like that."

"I don't think it ever bothered him," I reassure him sincerely. "It was just you two goofing around. I'm sure it didn't cause any harm -"

He shakes his head defiantly. "But I never told him how much I appreciated how many times he jumped through hoops to be there for me, even when I didn't deserve it," he finally looks at me, but it's only a quick glance, then back to the floor. "You don't understand, JJ."

"No, I do." And I mean that. "I think we all do. We all took him for granted. We all treated him like the young kid who sometimes got in the way. All of us, we all forgot to tell him how much he meant to us." I don't want to feel it, but I feel guilt wash over me. I should have told him about my crush on him when I had the chance. I should have soaked in that first and only date we had. I should have kissed him. Then again, I wouldn't have had Henry. I'm so torn between want and guilt it's tearing me up inside.

"I just hope that he knew we felt the same way about him as he did us." I hope so too. God, I hope so.

Morgan's next words rattle me up. "You don't think he felt unappreciated, so he..." he doesn't finish his sentence. He just looks at me. I'm scared to see him look at me. Though we're both at fault here, not just me. "You don't think it's our fault, do you?" he asks me. Now I understand why Morgan's been so hell-bent on getting Michael. Right now, I want nothing more.

* * *

We're in the car. Morgan and I pass a drive-in fast food restaurant, and we apparently both have the same thoughts, because he pulls into the drive-in line. We're stuck behind three cars who were here first and we have barely spoken. Morgan, about two miles back, made a comment about a nice truck up ahead and I made a comment about a house I liked when we stopped at a stop sign, but that's about it.

"Do you know what you want to eat?" he asks me, even though we're still behind three cars and the outside menu is still a few rows ahead.

"I'm not sure," I say, trying to sound casual, like we're both not thinking, _We might've killed Reid. Maybe not physically, but we had something to do with it. _"I'll see when we get up there."

He nods. "I think I want a cheeseburger." It occurs to me how insane this is. How we're pretending to act completely natural when really there's a big ball of tension filling the car like airbags. I feel like the tension is sucking the air out of the car.

My phone vibrates in my coat pocket. I pull it out, read the caller ID and I don't recognize the number. I give Morgan a glance, and he furrows his eyebrows at me, then I answer the call.

"Hello?" I'm using my super-nice phone voice.

"Yes, hello. Is this," the woman's voice - who is unfamiliar to me - pauses briefly then says, "Jennifer Jareau?"

"Yes, this is she. May I ask who's calling?" I look at Morgan, and it's obvious my concerned face expression is worrying him, because two cars have moved up and we're still in the same spot. It isn't until someone behind us honks that he drives up. Now we're just behind one car, whose ordering.

"I'm glad I could reach you. This is Melanie Mcclain from Parkridge Hospital. I got your phone number from William Lamontagne's cell phone." I shoot up in my seat, and when my belt tries to pull me back, I unbuckle and throw it off of me. Morgan is suddenly deeply concerned. Once the car in front of us pulls ahead, Morgan pulls ahead too, this time driving out of the drive-in line and pulls over to the parking lot, then parks the car and shuts off the loud engine roaring. I can't sit still.

"Did something happen?" I ask her. Morgan pulls the keys out of the ignition so he has something to hold onto and play with as he listens in my conversation.

"Well," the way she says it makes me think more's going on than even I'm imagining. "There was a little incident at the house he's staying at. William was found with his wrists slit and his brother brought him here. You were in his ICE contacts on his cell phone, which means -"

I cut her off. "In Case of an Emergency, I know." I know what happened. Will didn't do this to himself. Michael did it.

"We're going to send William to an institution after he heals up a little bit. He's obviously a troubled man."

"I'll be there soon." I hang up quickly before she can tell me anything else. I didn't bother telling her that Will isn't troubled or that Will doesn't belong in an institution.

"What happened?" Morgan asks quickly.

"Michael slit Will's wrists." I say quietly, still shocked. It's very hard to believe. I had called Will, he was perfectly fine...now he's laying in a hospital bed with bandages and stitches on his wrists. Like Reid would have been if I had went over to his apartment sooner than when I did.

"Is he -"

I nod quickly. "He's fine. He's at Parkridge, could we just -"

"Driving there now." Morgan roars the engine and pulls fast out of the parking lot like Michael will be waiting for us at the hospital.

* * *

I hate the smell of hospitals. Dentists, gynecologists and hospitals all smell the same. It's a very unsettling smell. Morgan has been talking to me ever since we left the restaurant. I know he's trying to keep me calm, but I've barely been listening. Though I heard his voice, I couldn't tell you a single word he said. Maybe something about feeding people peas or something. I'm not entirely sure where he was going with that one. The glass doors of the hospital lead us into the place and as we're walking up to the desk, he's still yapping.

"The scars won't be too bad, I don't think. Probably won't be that noticeable overtime." I think he's talking about the future scars Will will have for the rest of his life, but for all I know, he could be talking about his neighbor or some other person I'm not familiar with.

I'm thankful to reach the desk just to get him to shut up. It's not that his excessive bantering is bothering me necessarily, but he needs to take a breath. The woman at the desk spots us, raises one finger to let us know she needs a moment, then walks away with a folder.

"Good thing his brother found him," Morgan says. I know what he's thinking: _or else he could have ended up like Reid._

"Yeah," I nod. "Good thing." I say it sarcastically, and I don't know why it comes out like that. Maybe I'm still pissed that I didn't have that good of fortune. I didn't find Reid in enough time.

The woman comes back, and looks like she's in a hurry. "Yes, how can I help you both?"

"I'm looking for William Lamontagne. He was probably brought in, I'd say, about forty-five minutes ago." I tell her.

She opens a few folders, searches around then finally finds his name in her documents. "Yes, how are you related to him?" she asks me. She gives Morgan a funny look. Morgan gives her one back. If it weren't for the situation in general, I'd be laughing.

"I'm his girlfriend," I scratch the back of my neck. I'm afraid that's not enough. Do I have to be married to him in order to see him? "I'm the mother of his kid." I throw that in there in hopes that'll sway her.

"Right this way," she steps behind the desk, stands beside me then looks at Morgan sternly. "Is he family as well?" she asks.

"No." Morgan answers, right away getting his cue and turning to sit in a chair by the corner.

The woman leads me in the back. We pass hallway after hallway, then she leads me to an elevator. "When you get up there, he's in room 304. It's down the hallway, on the right."

I nod at her, say thank-you, then head into the elevator. I close my eyes and feel the elevator lift up underneath my shoes. Elevator's always gave me anxiety. I knew they used to do it to Reid too. I press my head against the wall as the elevator rattles.

"He'll be okay," I could swear I could hear Reid say that to me. I jolt up, search the small room, but Reid isn't there. I steady my heart rate and close my eyes again.

"He's stronger than I was." I hear Reid's voice again. I open my eyes. Not there. Still, I keep my eyes open until I get on the floor. I walk down the hall and my mind goes blank...she said right? Or was it left? No, it was right. I think... I decide to turn right, and sure enough, there's room 304.

The door's open, but you have to walk in at least a little to get the whole picture. Will's face and neck and upper arm is completely untouched. Just his wrists have bandages covering them, just like I pictured. I walk in, careful that my shoes don't clunk too hard on the tile. However, my shoes manage to be loud enough to make him stir in his sleep.

I touch his arm. He blinks a little, opens his eyes, then notices me and attempts to sit up.

"Lay down," I instruct softly, touching his shoulders. "You need to rest."

"I didn't do this, JJ." He says, his voice raspy. Probably from screaming. I try not to think of Michael sawing away at Will's wrists. Or Will screaming at the top of his lungs during.

"I know you didn't." I say. "We think we know exactly who did this."

"Did the," he swallows, winces and tries again to sit up. When he can't put pressure on his hands, he decides to give up. "Did he do this to Reid? I mean, is it the same guy?"

"Yes." I say, nodding.

"You need to be careful, JJ," suddenly his voice is back to normal and he's all concerned-boyfriend all over again. "I don't want you messing with this guy."

"We've got it handled." I insist.

"We've?" he prompts.

"Morgan and I."

His eyes widen. "You two are doing this alone? No, this isn't a good idea."

"We're not doing this alone," I lie. It hurts to look at him in this condition and lie to him, but I know he'll only worsen matters if he knows the truth. "We've got everyone on it. And we will catch him." I smile at him, readjusting the blanket pulled over him. "You just need to get rest."

"I'll try to." he smiles weakly at me.

I kiss his forehead and walk out of his room. Morgan's running down the hall to me, and he looks like he's out of breath. When he catches up to me, I try to slow him down.

"What is it?" I yell, paranoid.

"My mother," he leans forward, trying to breathe. "He did the same to my mom."


	10. Chapter Ten

I clutch his arm to keep him still. "Is she alright?" I screech, mid-flurry of panic. You know that feeling when terror completely overcomes your body? When every bone in your body has a shrilling chill to it. I have that. Right now.

He stops to catch a breath, but his not-so-quick response to me only keeps me panicking that much more. I wipe invisible sweat off of my forehead with the back of my hand. I say invisible because I'm not really sweating, but it feels like I should be. When my hand brushes across my forehead, it isn't damp.

"She's alright, technically," he finally spits out. It's enough to make me lose the tightness in my chest, at least. "But she was admitted into the hospital in Chicago, just like Will."

My thoughts start taking drastic turns and twists as I start forming ideas, at a desperate attempt to make sense of the situation. As of right now, it's making zero. "How could Michael fly to Chicago in that short amount of time? He's not us, he doesn't have a jet at his beckon call. He has to buy a plane ticket, wait at airport security, ect. ect. That'd take too long."

Morgan looks confused at this right away, and like me, starts conspiring deep within his brain. "Maybe he got someone to do it for him?" he concludes, stroking his chin thoughtfully. Perhaps, I think, but it's not good enough of a theory for me to jump into directly. I pace past him, then turn around and pace the opposite direction, just to keep my legs moving along to the rhythm of my thoughts.

I spot a quick glance at Morgan in the reflection of a glass window. The sky is dark, and by now, it's gotta be at least seven in the afternoon. The roads are slick and wet and cars are streaming in and out of the hospital parking lot. I see one car in particular zip right out of his parking space, then speed down the rows of parked cars and then make a sharp turn right, and pulls out into the main road. My thought, somehow, captures this stranger and refuses to let go. Why are they speeding? Did they just receive bad news? Are they hurrying home to tell a loved one that another loved one won't be making it home? But why hurry? Why hurry to inform someone on bad news? No one ever hurries for that. It's common and natural human behavior to duck and hide when faced with tragedies. We certainly don't scurry our way out of the current situation, eager to burst someone's bubble.

But then I think, maybe they're in such shock of what they've just been informed that they're not concentrating on their speedometer. No, they are thinking of ways to tell said loved one about the one that just passed on. They are making rapid turns and speedy passes because their mind is elsewhere. Their mind is in such a state of shock, the brain's way of not plummeting head-first into agonizing truthfulness right away, that they don't even realize they're putting their own life at risk. That, and of others. At that one sight of that one car speeding off, it stays with me. I know I'll never know why they were speeding, but I still find myself wondering why. Or maybe I don't want to know.

The sounds of cars honking faintly and clipboards clipping pieces of paper down and people walking the hallways fills my ears. But one particular sound drowns out all of the much louder ones. It's the sound of an older woman. "He's not doing so well," she informs someone. I feel myself straining my ears to hear clearer. "I thought he was doing better this morning." The sound of another woman heaving a sigh follows directly after the first woman finishes her sentence.

"Are we going to tell the family?" asks the second woman. She sounds tired and drained and like discussing life or death of a patient is of the norm. And technically, it is for me too. But somehow, for some reason I can't place, this triggers my heart to go haywire. In a really, really lonely kind of way. My heat feels like it's swamped with heavy sadness.

The first woman sighs too. "I'm not sure. Let's wait a while, huh? See if he progresses." the woman then pauses, her clipboard makes a click and adds, "Though it's unlikely."

My heart still feels full. Like I've just overstuffed it with a big feast or something. It's strange how closely it resembles overfilling yourself with food. I can't explain what's happening to me right now. I've seen too many deaths to count, too many grieving family members, too many tears cried in front of me and anger words spit out at me as if I killed so-and-so's spouse or child or aunt or uncle. But right now, standing frozen solid, in front of a big glass window that shows me the lonely early November outside, something hits me. Hard and quick like I've just been stabbed in the back. First, my heart's initial reaction is to protect itself. It goes into shock. But then it slowly becomes less numb, and I begin to feel. I begin to see that death is so easy. It takes you so quick it's almost hard to see. Usually, it turns out, it is.

We take - _I take -_ life for granted because as long as we're still breathing, it's still there. And it feels like it's always going to be there. First I feel so stupid for finally succumbing to this. I should have learned this the very first time I saw a mutilated body or witnessed a suicide-by-cop or anything of that nature. But no, I'm realizing it here. It's breaking my heart and scaring the hell out of me all at the same time. I want to scream and hold onto something just to remember that I still feel. I'm not slipping away. No, I'm still alive. Even if sometimes it feels like I'm not really alive much at all.

"JJ," Morgan finally says to me, bringing me zipping back to reality. I blink a few times and turn to him. "What are we going to do?"

I'm not sure what we're going to do. Why is it suddenly on me? It's not like I'm the profiler. "Why don't we talk to Diana?" I suggest.

He pauses. "Fine, what do you have?" I snap at him instantly. "It's not like we've got many other options -"

He raises his hand and cuts me off. "That's not bad." he says, kind of smirking. He pulls out his cell phone, but a nurse who is strolling by with papers gives him a warning look. He smiles at her pleasantly and he motions for us to go outside. It's freezing out here. I give him a look and he points to his car. His car, as in, Hotch's car. Hotch has probably called, at a random estimate off of the top of my head, seventeen times. He wants his car back, no doubt. Guess he'll have to wait.

We climb into the car as the sound of ringing pours through the tiny speakers on Morgan's phone; it's on speakerphone and he's calling the center in which Diana is staying at. I look at the bright blue numbers on the digital clock on Hotch's car radio. It's 7:45 P.M. and it's insanely dark out. I can see the moon peeking through a couple thin branches on a partially bald tree behind the side of the hospital. It's so bright and beautiful and full. It feels like it's been forever since I've acknowledged the moon. Or a sunset or sunrise, for that matter. It's just one of those many beautiful things in life you take for granted after seeing it so many times. I can just see myself driving to work, cursing at the glaring sun, pulling down my visor and my sunglasses. Same goes for the drive home.

Finally, a voice enters the cell phone. A few sounds of mumbling, a quiet seemingly shy girl introduces herself and asks if we need help. "Yes, I'd like to speak to a patient if that's possible," Morgan glances at the clock. "I know at this hour it's unlikely."

"We usually don't allow interactions between patients at this kind of hour. Is it an emergency?" she says this with a knowing sigh; evidently she's caught wind of Diana's son dying.

"No," Morgan says dully, like he sees where this is going. I slap his arm and he pipes up. "Actually, it kind of is. See, we're FBI. We worked with her son. It's important, Miss, actually, and it won't take very long." I raise my eyebrows, clearly impressed. I'm so surprised he can switch his tone and attitude so convincingly in a matter of milliseconds.

She pauses, heaves a sigh that says she has no other choice then says, "Hold on, I'll let you speak with her," a smile that says Morgan has just gotten his way spreads across his face. He's being slightly cocky about the fact that he always gets his way, but tonight it doesn't bother me one bit. "Please make it quick though, it's imperative Diana gets her rest. She's been switched to a different medication since...well, what recently occurred." I know she's talking about Reid, Morgan knows she's talking about Reid, but I still get this eerie chill like a freak burst of wind seeped through an opened door. I'm almost afraid to turn around. I'm afraid Reid'll be there. Maybe he's the cause of the chill. Either way, I don't bother looking.

"Absolutely, we'll be quick, I promise." Morgan reassures her sweetly before a soft click and rather quickly, Diana's voice fills the car. She sounds sad and tired, but her voice still sounds warm, like maybe she's happy to be talking to us.

"Diana!" I nearly cry out; I really miss her all of a sudden and I feel like we haven't spoken in ages. So much has changed in such little time. Despite the fact that we've done so much in only a few hours, it feels like time's suddenly cramping in on us and suffocating us. Like we're paddling, thinking we're reaching the end, but all the while we're actually sinking.

"JJ?" she asks, like she's not sure of herself; the way she says it makes me frown. Morgan catches my disappointment and gives me a look. I know what he's trying to say.

"Yes, it's her, Diana," Morgan says nicely. Beneath his niceness is a firmness as well, which tells me he's not beating around the bush right now. "We need more information on Michael, if that's possible."

There's silence. I catch Morgan's eye. "Diana? You there?" Morgan asks after a long pause. Maybe she's too burdened to speak?

"Yes, I'm here," she says casually, like we weren't just hanging on a line waiting for her answer. "You said some name of some sort?"

Morgan sighs almost inaudibly. "Yes, Michael Cleveland, do you remember?"

She pauses, something falls somewhere and she's fumbling, trying to reach for it. She's groaning like it's a pain to crouch down or something. For a moment I think she's completely forgotten about us being on the phone with her. "I'm still here," she says, this time her voice sounding far away like she put the phone down and she's now at the other end of the room.

"Diana, are you alright?" I ask.

She takes a while to respond. "Yes, I'm alright," she says softly. She sounds close to the phone now and more comfortable. "You wanted to know about Michael, you said?"

Now we're getting somewhere. "Yes." Morgan and I both say at the same time. We then look at each other and smile.

"What do you need to know?" she asks, sighing. I can tell she's tired. I feel horrible for keeping her awake and depriving her of rest if she's on new medication and all.

"Is there anywhere Michael ever took Reid that was special to him?" Morgan asks. "Any place Reid and Michael maybe visited a lot?"

She pauses. I hope we're not pushing her. I hope we don't shove her until she cracks. What if she starts going ballistic because she can't remember? I don't think I can handle, on top of everything else collapsing on top of me, the weight of that too. "I don't really remember." she finally says.

"Try." Morgan practically commands. I shoot him a look. He gives me one back. I can't believe he's pressuring her to strain herself to remember. A woman in her condition, whose suffering through the loss of her child? How dare he burden her with this. How dare I go along with it. But the thought that she's the only one who knows Michael well enough dawns on me and I realize that it's not our fault; we didn't have any other choice.

"I'm trying," she says sadly. "I can only think of one place -"

"Where?" Morgan prompts.

"-It's in the woods and I doubt he'd go there still -"

"Diana, where is it?" Morgan's now very stern. I don't think he realizes how rude he sounds right now. But I'm too wrapped up in hearing about said location that I can't correct him on his manners.

"It's," she pauses, groans. "It's - oh, God - I don't even remember."

Morgan rolls his eyes at the driver's side window. I slap his arm and mouth, "I saw that," and he shrugs one shoulder carelessly. It's not that he's intentionally being heartless, it's just when he's determined, there's nothing he's willing to be patient for. I know this, I just wish Diana does.

"Can you explain the place?" I try, sounding more helpful and reassuring rather than pressing her with questions in a cop-interrogating-suspect kind of tone.

"It was in the woods, like I said. It was always muddy when they went there, I know that, because they came back with their clothes drenched in mud. I'm not entirely sure what they did there. I think there's water by the place, too."

I'm thinking. _JJ, think!_ I try to picture a woodsy area with water and dirt. Maybe it's because I don't live in Vegas, you know, that might have something to do with it. Morgan snaps his finger, hit with an idea, and grasps his phone intensely. "Thanks, Diana, you've been a real help." and then hangs up on her.

"Whoa, Morgan, what the hell?" I ask. He accelerates hard and we're speeding out of the parking lot, just like the stranger did, and I'm clutching onto my seat. Then, he flicks on the sirens like we're heading to an emergency and we're peeling down the road fifteen over the speed limit.

* * *

Morgan doesn't tell me where we're going. It's really starting to piss me off. I watch the trees; they're a bunch of blurs, which indicates to me just how fast we're going. Apparently we reach the destination, because he brings the car to a screeching halt. I bounce forward a little but my belt stops me and settles me in my seat. That, and I reach for the glove compartment naturally.

He pulls the keys from the ignition and stares straight ahead. Once the pounding of my heart in my chest slows and I start breathing again, I look ahead as well. We're in the woods. Naked trees surround the wet grass. Branches are going out everywhere, and I'm scared if we start walking we're going to get poked in the eyes.

"You know, this isn't the special place that Diana was talking about," I inform him. I mean, he must know that. He gives me a soft nod then opens the door. I hear leaves crunch under his steel-toed boots as he walks past the car and into the darkness, with no source of light whatsoever. I groan loudly, still in the warm car, too comfortable to bother with following him. But the further he walks, his body starts becoming nothing but resemblance of a shadow; slowly all I can see is the outline of his shape. Before he gets much farther, I unbuckle and hop out of the car. First I'm slowly walking to him, thinking I've got the right path...I listen closely to the sound of leaves crunching ahead of him.

But soon, the comforting sound of Morgan stomping on leaf after leaf distances and then it's gone. I start panicking. I can't see a thing. "Morgan?" I whisper very softly. There's not a house for miles as far as I can see, and I doubt anyone's sleeping in the bushes, but I still feel compelled to talk very low.

"Morgan!" I shout hysterically. Oh, screw being quiet, I'm lost. "Morgan!" I cry out this time, desperation and pure terror coming out sounding very whiny. "I can't see you!"

I stand remarkably still, listening for any sound of Morgan. Nothing. I start spinning in circles, looking for the car. But I can't see a thing. See, I suffer through a thing called night blindness. It's such a thing, really; it makes it very hard for me to see in the dark. Like, at all. I'm so annoyed and pissy and confused I want to cry. "Dammit, Morgan!" I scream, shoving my boot hard into the ground. I feel six years-old stomping like a child not getting their way, but right now, I don't care. Anything to keep me from pulling my hair and screaming.

I hear crunching again. My heart feels safe again. I let out a breath of relief, which turns into white smoke in the air and fades. I can't believe it's this cold out. I guess being scared shitless makes you forget how freaking cold it is. "Morgan, you dumbass," I say snappishly, turning around. I see the outline of his shape coming into picture. The closer he walks toward me, the clearer he gets. "You should've brought a flashlight."

Slowly the outline becomes bigger. He almost looks too skinny to be Morgan. When the shape and face of the person turns visible, I realize it isn't Morgan after all. It's a curly-haired man with dirty fingernails. He reaches toward me, and I back away. Instinctively I reach for my gun. Then I remember I left it at home.

"Can I help you, Miss?" he asks me. He sounds very cold. I know this because his teeth are chattering. I shake my head.

"I'm here with a friend, I just can't find him right now." I tell him. I'm hoping if he knows I'm not alone, he won't try anything.

He nods, then smiles. He actually has a very pleasant smile. And from what I can tell, nice green eyes. Or I think they're green. I'm not too sure. "Is he dark? Bald? Pretty big guy?" I nod right away. He points to his right, slightly behind him and smiles. "He's back there. Not too wise to be out here without any light," he cocks his head and grins. "Like you said."

I feel myself blushing. I guess I didn't have such a good first impression. "Sorry 'bout that, I'm not normally so bitchy..."

He raises one hand and shakes his head. "Please, don't worry about it," he starts walking to where he pointed. To apparently where Morgan is. I follow him. "I'd be bitchy too if my friend got me lost in the woods, in the dark."

"I know, right?" I laugh.

He nudges my arm and extends his hand. I try to look past his dirty fingernails. I shake his hand with a friendly smile plastered on my face. "I'm Blake."

"Jennifer," I say. Then I add, "My friends call me JJ for short."

The further we start walking, I realize the light far in the distance isn't the moon, but a light from a wooden cabin sort of place. "Is that a restroom?" I ask. It reminds me of when I'd visit the park with my family as a kid and it would have oddly placed restrooms all around.

"No, it's a cabin." he digs his hands into his jeans pocket. The closer we get to the light from the cabin, I see his outfit. Camouflage shirt, camouflage pants. He must have been hunting. "There's a few around here, believe it or not."

"You can hunt here?" I ask.

He laughs. "No way, you can't hunt this close to a place where people stay; I mean, what if my aim sucked and I shot it through a window in the cabin?" I shrug. He smiles cockily. "Good thing my aim is _real_ good."

I laugh. "Um, I doubt you'd know, but do you know Michael Cleveland?" I ask him. I stop walking and face him. "Has he stayed here?"

He shrugs one shoulder. "He visits here a lot, actually. He's big on the woods, apparently."

I nod super-fast. "Is he here now?"

He motions his head to the cabin that's only about five feet from us now. "In there."

I begin to worry. Where the hell is Morgan? "Okay, thanks." I look around me, and I can tell by the way I'm looking, I'm making him paranoid.

"Your friend's inside." he tells me. My heart starts pounding. The sound of a gun shot echoes throughout the woods, and I instinctively push Blake into the ground in a ducking position. I lay there, my face buried in his chest, scared to move an inch. But more than anything, I'm scared for Morgan.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Author's note: **I know I said Chapter Eleven would be the last, and technically it is, but I'm going to post an epilogue soon.

* * *

My breath is leaving puffs of smoke into the air until it fades to nothing. I can't quite tell you just how long I've been lying here, too scared to lift my head. Blake isn't forcing me off, either. His breathing echoes in my ear; his breath is coming out strong and forceful, because apparently I knocked it out of him when I shoved him to the ground. Leaves crinkle beneath our weight when he shifts us, and then he sits up, making me sit up with him. He's touching my arm.

"Are you alright?" he asks me. I wonder why he's taken this long to ask me that. Was he scared to know the answer?

Either way, I'm not sure how to respond to this. Do I say I'm alright? Because I'm obviously not. The more I think about it, the more it occurs to me how dumb that was of a question anyway. But maybe he was asking to make sure I'm okay physically.

"Yes, I'm fine," I stand up, immediately heading for the door of the cabin. Blake evidently has another idea, because he grabs my hand and pulls me back. I groan at him loudly.

"You can't go in there." he says sternly. Like it's his choice.

I use the power of both of my palms and shove them hard into his chest, until he stumbles back and he bumps into a tree. "I have to," I scream back at him. "My friend is in there!" For a second, we're staring into each other's eyes, like we're exchanging the same thoughts. For a split second, it feels like something shocks between us, like he sent me a warning telepathically. I ignore it and muster up whatever strength I have left within me, turn on the heels of my boots and walk broad-shouldered to the door.

"I'd be careful if I were you," he calls out to me. When I glance at him with the corner of my eye, he's still crouched down against the tree. Something tells me he's not staying there because he's afraid of me. "You don't know what you might see when you walk in."

Stupidly, that never came to my mind. Now I'm terrified. I can just see Morgan lying there bloodied, with two thin lines cut across his wrists, pools of blood lying beneath them. The very image makes my stomach cramp and I feel like I might vomit, but I inhale a long breath of cool air and it seems to settle my stomach for a second. At least long enough to steady my shaking hands, grab the cabin's handle and creak it open.

* * *

At first, it seems like the coast is clear. The cabin inside has wood walls and floors, and can almost trick you into thinking it's a lovely place to stay. Minus the whole wrist-slashing killer on the loose. I hear feet trample behind me, and I leap into the air, screaming so hard my vocal box feels like it might crack.

"God, cut it out, will you?" Blake yells at me. I feel so angry with him right now I want to shove him again, but I curl my fists into a ball and shush him, like he's going to get us caught. He tiptoes his way into the cabin, next to me, and now we're just standing here, like, what do we do now?

"Have you seen anything?" he whispers into my hair. I shake my head. I think that maybe, that might be a good thing. At least that's how I choose to look at it.

Something comes from the bathroom. A noise. I can't describe what it sounds like, but it makes my whole body freeze and tense. For a second I feel like I can't breathe. I'm actually scared to breathe, like Michael might hear me and it's over. I get this horrible image of Morgan and me hanging in the woods out here, dead and pale, with our wrists cut. I really have to learn how to control the pictures I see in my head. But I can't stop seeing it. I'm scared to think that maybe it's not just an imagination, but I'm seeing the future instead.

"Shouldn't we see what that was?" Blake bravely asks me. Of course we should. Like I didn't think of that. But I feel like I'm incapable of moving my feet. I think I might have paralyzed myself, from panicking. I nod very slowly. I can feel his eyes burning holes into me, but I still cannot move. Sorry, Blake.

"Maybe we should... now?" he asks me. I nod again. _Be careful. You don't know what you might see when you walk in. _"Do you need me to go in first?" he asks.

I shake my head. I hear Blake's terrifying sentence play repetitively over in my brain. _Be careful. _I close my eyes and strangely, I find myself feeling a ball of fury build up inside of me. I'm a lighted fuse suddenly. I don't recognize myself anymore, because I can't ever recall having this much hate for someone. With my eyes still closed, I see Reid. I see Reid lying on his apartment floor, with the life completely cut away from him. He didn't want this. I'm sure of it now more than ever. I can see Reid on the videotape, strong, because that's how he had to be. I can see Michael slashing Will, taunting me and Morgan. Peeling away, cackling, in Hotch's car.

With the force of my hate and anger, I kick the bathroom door open like I'm imitating Morgan, and what I see next, surprises the hell out of me. Michael is tied to a wooden chair, and Morgan's standing above him, arms folded. There's a vein in Morgan's head throbbing and pulsing, and his mouth is twitching. I don't think he's even spotted me yet.

"Morgan?" I ask. He finally sees me, and his chest relaxes and loosens the tightness momentarily.

"I found him," he informs me. I nod.

"I can see that." I don't know what else to say.

Michael looks drained of his energy. There's a cut on his left eyebrow, and a bruise on his right cheek that's seeming to darken in color by the minute. He's tied to the chair with a thick rope that looks like it's tearing into his skin, and there's a bullet hole beside the bathroom mirror.

"What have you done to him?" I ask. I shut the bathroom door behind me and lock it, leaving Blake standing in the living room of the cabin. Maybe he's not even there anymore, I'm not sure.

"Not much of anything," Morgan says behind tight lips and gritted teeth. "Just enough to get him to calm down."

I stand beside Morgan, and I'm looking at Michael through his eyes. I'm not sure what to do with him either. We can handcuff him and take him into custody, but I get this sensation that feels very ugly bubble up inside of me, feeling like that isn't enough. This feeling that's embodied both Morgan and me is scaring me. I've never felt like this. I've never wanted to harm somebody. I've never seen myself so frightening.

"Have you just been staring at him like this for a while?" I ask him.

Morgan nods. "I want to talk to him," he mutters to me, before he stomps forward and slaps Michael across the face. Michael seems disoriented for a second, but eventually he comes to reality. His expression seems surprisingly nonchalant to me.

"You again." Michael says, wincing and shifting behind his trap.

"What happened?" Morgan asks. That's what I've wanted to know all along. For God's sake, let's just get to it already.

"Do you mean with Spencer?" Michael asks. Morgan trembles a little, and I know it's not out of fear. He grabs a fistful of Michael's shirt and pulls him to his face.

"Don't play with me." Morgan warns him. I don't try to step up and keep Morgan calm. Frankly, whatever he wants to do to him, I'm going to allow.

"Alright, alright," Michael moves until Morgan lets go of his shirt and backs up next to me again. "But why would I tell you? You know you're going to kill me if I tell you what happened."

Morgan's still trembling. I'm surprised he doesn't deny that statement. It makes me wonder exactly what Morgan has in mind to do to Michael.

"Don't you think you owe your family the truth?" I'm trying to play the family card, hopeful that it might get me through to him. Something flinches in his eyes. I reached him. "Maybe if you told us what happened, we can understand it."

Morgan glares at me, but I don't look his way. Michael lowers his head, and when he raises his head again, there's tears that trickled down his face to the bridge of his nose, dripping onto his jeans. "It started a few years back," he tells us.

* * *

_Spencer and I were hanging out outside of my house, like we usually did on the weekends. You know, we were best friends. Hell, he was my brother even. Anyway, we were hanging out on my porch, after playing a little bit of softball. I was egging him about not being coordinated and also being a bad pitcher, and he was just playing along with it, but he seemed quiet. _

_"I've been studying really hard lately," Spencer told me._

_I remember laughing at that. "You always study hard, Spence, it's what you do," I was still laughing when I said, "It's all you do."_

_But he stayed quiet. I started getting worried, plus I hated the awkward silence, so I grabbed the softball and said, "Do you want to play another round?"_

_He sat up and said, "I got a job in the FBI. No, with the FBI, actually. The Behavioral Analysis Unit," he stopped talking, then said, "It's kind of a big deal."_

_Those words enraged me. Of course it was a big deal! Everything Spencer Reid did was a big deal. And I mean, everything. My family would go on and on for ages about how intelligent he was, about the type of giving person he was. Now he had a fantastic job with the FBI? I was seriously pissed off._

"So you killed him out of jealousy?" Morgan snaps, interrupting Michael's storytime. Michael calmly shakes his head and continues, like Morgan's not phasing him one bit.

_Anyway, Spencer then went on to tell me and my family that afternoon that the job was in Virginia and that he'd have to move there permanently, and probably have to often take trips to other cities and states for cases. My parents were beyond devastated. You don't understand, they were heartbroken. They were stuck with me. You see, I had a brother. A real brother. He was born two years before me, and he died when he was six. My parents never recovered from that. But when Spencer came along, it was like he was Trevor's replacement. So when Spencer decided to ditch us, it was like losing Trevor all over again. Except now I was old enough to understand it. I was old enough to be affected._

I refuse to feel sympathy for Michael, but my heart aches for his parents. If I'd of known this, I wouldn't have snooped through their things so carelessly. Not that it hurt anything, it only helped, but now I reason we're only hurting them even more, by taking their only son left, even if he's a monster.

Morgan rocks on his boots a little, but he's still standing tall and firm. "So we're supposed to feel sorry for you?" he leans forward, presses on his knees and with the flick of his tongue, says, "Try harder."

Michael looks slightly shaken up, but I doubt it's from Morgan's insensitivity, and rather about his late brother.

_So yeah, after that, I was angry with him. I was always jealous of him, but this was so much different. I hated him now. I spent years hating him for leaving my family and me when he knew the condition we were in since Trevor died. So about a year after he got settled into the BAU, he wrote me a letter. From what I hear, that's all he does to his so-called "loved ones". It said something like, "I miss your family, I hope you're all doing well. I'm doing good myself, keeping it together. My mom asks about you." Blah-blah-blah. I didn't reply. At first. I remember him sending my parents one about six months later. Something similar to mine, but with other stuff like, "Thanks for taking care of me when my mother couldn't." My parents replied with a thank-you letter, like Spencer deserved some kind of award for acknowledging our existence. I still hated him. Then about two years after that, without another letter from him, my mom admitted something to the entire family. My dad is not really my dad. I had so much anger built up inside of me I wanted to explode. So I sat down and wrote Spencer a long letter. I told him that he betrayed us, that he'd taken advantage of us, that he was doomed to follow in the footsteps of his caged mother, that he too was going to lose his mind and go ballistic. That he was the crazy one, it was never me. You know what he wrote me back, three months later?_

I think I'm shaking too. I think I'm scared to see how the story ends.

_He wrote me a letter in response three months later that said something like, "I had to leave. Michael, you're not okay. I know you always say you are, but you're not." Then he went on and on to tell me, in clinical FBI-style detail how I'm "not right" and how I need psychological evaluation. Why? Because I enjoyed cutting myself and watching others bleed? My anger built up only that much more. So I took my time writing my reply. I took three years, if I'm doing the math correctly. I told him that it's his fault that I'm not right, that his influence over me and his nutjob mother corrupted me. I promised that I'd get my revenge. I mean, how dare he say my family was strangling him? That I was strangling him? So I made that promise. He replied about a week later apologizing up and down how sorry he was, but how he still believed I needed help. That he couldn't help me, that I had to help myself. But he agreed to meet up with me and talk with me. I declined._

_But I plotted. I plotted my revenge for years. I didn't know how I was going to do it, but I was positive it was going to be done. So one night, two months ago, I called him up, because his contact information he'd given me years ago apparently never changed. I'd said, "Hello Spencer, it's your brother, Michael." Spencer seemed hesitant, but he covered himself pretty quickly. _

_"Michael, you're calling me. I thought you hated me?"_

_"I do," I'd said to him. "Which is why I'm calling."_

_I still remember the sad, distant sigh on the other end of the line. "Michael, I'm really sorry I left. If you want to come meet me, we can talk-"_

_"It won't be necessary. I'm already sitting outside of the BAU. Nice place," I'd told him. I wasn't lying, either. I had my plan already set in motion. "I can see why you like it so much." Even from my car, I could see him tensing; pressing numbers on his telephone._

_"I've got a bomb, Spencer," I'd warned him. "I'll blow the place to bits if you call 911." Of course, he stopped dialing instantly. He was like my puppet. So fun to play with._

_"What do you need me to do?" he'd asked me. I sat there and thought about it. He was generous, really; he gave me plenty of time to think it through. I imagined, image by image, like a flipbook, how the explosion would look. It didn't taste very good. It seemed unappealing, unexciting to me. I didn't want to see his world blown up around me like mine did around him. I wanted to see him bleed. I wanted to see open wounds and blood stains and a dead body put together, but torn apart all at the same time. So I told him,_

_"I'm going to follow each and every one of your FBI friends home unless you meet up with me at your place."_

_I wasn't going to hurt you guys, honestly. I just wanted him. Only him. He agreed right away. I made my conditions clear, and like my little trained puppet, he followed them perfectly. I headed straight to his house after work. Sure enough, he was there._

_His gun wasn't attached to his hip like I expected. No, he was completely unarmed. Just sitting at his table drinking coffee, with another filled coffee cup on the edge. I sat beside him; for a minute, it felt like I had my brother back._

_"Michael, I want to help you." was the first thing he said to me. Then I remembered, he's not my brother anymore. He's a man who thinks I'm insane. I wanted to gut him right there. But I waited. I sat there, as he calmly stated reasons why it's common that I'm having these dark thoughts and feelings, that he too has thought things before, that he too has considered himself crazy. But all I heard was, "you're insane, Michael." so I took my knife out and threatened to gut every one of you unless he did one thing._

_"Do you love your family?" I asked, the sharp blade pressing hard against his throat. I felt him swallow beneath the pressure._

_"Yes." he didn't waste any time replying._

_"Would you die for them?"_

_Without a doubt he said, "Yes."_

_Then an idea popped into my head. I was going to make his family heartbroken like he made mine. "I want you to make a suicide tape." And with that, his emotions totally changed. He seemed calm. Because he knew, he was going to die. So I took him to his room and recorded the tape. He wasn't scared. And when I laid him on the ground and cut his wrists, I swear, he looked relieved. I think I took him away from his pain. I saw the marks on his arms from shooting up; I saw scars and unhappiness and fear. He wanted to die._

My heart feels lodged in my throat. I can't breathe. I'm certain I'm going to faint, but instead I'm shaking my head violently. He died for us. He died for me, even. He was taking one for the team. I'm so filled with emotions I can't do anything but grab onto Michael, force him up and slam him into the bathtub. The cheap wooden legs on the chair crack, as my heart feels like it's doing the same thing.

I'm surprised at how tame Morgan is, up until he charges forward and kneels into the bathtub, attacking Michael's face so hard. I squeeze my eyes shut. I hear the sound of pounding, of groaning, of crying, of begging, of Morgan losing himself in a fury of blood and rage. Morgan's yelling something to him, but words start fading into angry screams. Terror shoots through the entire bathroom as Michael cries out in pain. But when I open my eyes, I see Morgan pounding his fists into Michael like he's a punching bag.

My legs feel wobbly, but I manage to reach Morgan enough to pull him away. Morgan's fists are still squeezed shut, with blood dripping from his bruised knuckles. Michael's face is so bruised and bloody I almost don't recognize him.

"Why'd you stop me?" Morgan asks me, panting.

"Because I already lost Reid. I can't lose you too." I say.

He looks confused, but when he looks back at Michael, half-alive, slumped in the tub, he understands. He pulls me into him and holds me there. I finally catch my breath.


	12. Epilogue

**Author's note: **I couldn't think of a better sendoff. This story was my absolute favorite I've written and it was SO much fun to write. I hope you guys loved it as much as I did.

* * *

_**One Year Later.**_

* * *

The eggnog is making the air smell sourly sweet, but it's being taken over by the strong scent of pine that's coming off of the tree. We didn't celebrate Christmas last year, because we'd just discovered what really happened with Reid's death, and celebrating the Holidays all cheery and merrily seemed very disheartening, so we decided to skip it. This year's much different. I've gotta admit, living through summer without Reid was a very hard time. We'd all gotten used to him groaning in the backseat about how unbelievably hot it is and how it's Global Warming's fault and in forty-something years we're going to need heavy-duty air conditioners to supply cool air, which may eventually be a hazard to our health for reasons he went on to explain fervently. Last Christmas, we all sulked beside ourselves around the BAU. I don't think a single person even exchanged any _have a Merry Christmas_ wishes. Morgan and I were both hesitant to call Diana, but we wound up writing her a long and heartfelt letter. I still remember it so painfully well.

* * *

_Dear Diana Reid, it's JJ writing this; Morgan's right beside me. We're both hoping you have a fantastic Holiday season and you spend plenty of time relaxing, because you deserve it. I hope you received the care-package Morgan and I shipped over. The receptionist at the desk said it was delivered this morning, but I never know with those people. The package contains plenty of goodies that should make your room there feel like a nice homey place to be for Christmas. Morgan and I really want to visit, but it's hard for us. I hope you understand that. I hope our friends in the FBI contacted you like they said they would, to inform you on what really happened with Spencer's death. I hope you're at peace knowing that it wasn't Reid's doings. You were right all along. And so you know, we never, __not once__, ever doubted that that was true._

_I hope you know that Spencer held a very special place in all of our hearts, and he won't ever be forgotten. There's something Morgan and I want to say to you, but it's so hard to say in person or over the phone. Maybe that's why Reid had mailed you all of those letters. Maybe to him, it was easier writing down his feelings instead of saying them out loud. You know, I bet that was it. This whole situation, with trying to find out what happened with Reid's murder, it taught me and Morgan something. Reid, though he's no longer alive, taught us how to be selfless. He showed us the type of person both Morgan and I aspire to be. He was so much more than a high IQ. He was courageous, strong, focused, loving and most of all, selfless. I hope my son follows in his footsteps. I hope someday I see his strength in me. Morgan is nodding in agreement right now._

_We're going to call you sometime, if it's not too soon. We want to give you time to get yourself together. We just want you to know that we care so much about you, and we're __always __going to be here for you. _

_You can reach out to us anytime. Love JJ & Derek Morgan._

It'd only taken a week for us to get a response. Surprisingly, the hospital contacted us. The woman told me that Diana had been taking her medication accordingly, so a phone call would be acceptable, as long as it wasn't over thirty minutes. Diana asked me to get Morgan, so he could hear too. I wasted no time speeding across the parking lot of the BAU to tap on Morgan's window, as he was turning the key in his car's ignition.

"It's Diana." I mouthed to him, pointing vigorously at the cell stapled to my ear. He jumped out of the car immediately, crouching to my side to press his ear to my cell phone.

"I'm here." Morgan told her.

"I was going through some of my things earlier after reading the letter you guys sent me, and I found something I'd pushed aside right around the time of Spencer's death," I remember her voice sounding strong and powerful coming from the phone; which was unusual, because I was used to her sounding weak and exhausted. "It's a letter from Spencer as well. One he wrote me right before his death. I was too distraught before to even notice it."

"What does it say?" Both Morgan and I said, our words coming out together seamlessly.

"You guys ought to read it for yourselves. I already had it sent to your place, JJ," she sighed a sigh that sounded very pleased to me. "Thank you guys so much. I can't," she paused, then sighed heartily. "I can't say that enough."

A lump felt lodged in my throat, but it felt really good, strangely enough.

* * *

I waited days for that letter to arrive. When it had, I held the white envelope in my hands like it was a letter deciding my future or something. I called Morgan, and I promised him I'd wait to open it until he got here. It was hard to wait, because it felt like the envelope was glaring at me, but I managed to keep myself semi-distracted in the meantime. Besides, Morgan hauled it to get to my house.

"You didn't open it, right?" he said to me before he was hardly in the door.

"No, I didn't open it," I insisted, racing to the envelope on the counter, my fingers sharply tearing into the thin paper. I glanced at him briefly to get his approval, but he was standing above me, watching my every move. The envelope was torn to shreds by the time I got to the letter. I held the thin, folded piece of notebook paper in my hands and cautiously, took a seat on my couch with Morgan before unfolding it. I remember thinking I had to be super-careful, because the letter was precious. It was the closest thing we had to Reid, besides his mother.

Morgan's breathing down my neck made me feel uneasy, but then he held my hand, as Reid's handwriting and words and thoughts became exposed as I unfolded it completely.

_Hey Mom. I'm so glad that you're reading this. I found some time in between Michael doing something in the other room to write this to you. He thinks it's a suicide note, blaming you for everything gone wrong in my life; since you're reading this, he apparently didn't bother checking the letter I sneakily slipped in, withdrawing the one I previously wrote. Because the one he forced me to write wasn't at all how I felt. You weren't able to be around for me like most mothers are, but you were my rock. You held it together because you had to. Because of me. I never properly thanked you for that._

_I'm not scared. I know it's too late. I know I'm already gone. But I hope I'm not gone to you, and everyone in my life. I hope you think about me when you pass by Bob Dylan records, and you think of me when you pass books about Physics Magic. (By the way, if anyone from my team is reading this: You will never know how to do it from me. You'll have to learn for yourself. It's for the experience.) I don't have enough time to thank all of you, because I kind of already did that on the video he made me film, but the one thing that was false was me wanting to die. I never blamed you, Mom, for my insecurities and my shortcomings. I never hated my life, and I never sought after revenge because of the subtle teasing my team members put me through (Hey, they were funny! And accurate!)._

A smile grew on Morgan's face.

_And I never, not ever, was ashamed to have you as my mother. I love you guys. I hope when you're sitting by the table on Thanksgiving, and you're saying your prayers, I'm in them. For whatever reason, I hope I cross your mind. Because I know I'm thankful for each and every one of you. And sitting here right now, writing this, I'm saying a prayer. And I'm saying to you guys: Thank You._

_

* * *

_

Both Morgan and I can remember that day clearly. It was the day before Christmas. Now, exactly one year later, after receiving that letter, I'm streaming lights on a small Christmas tree we purchased for Diana's room in the hospital. She's staring at the hot pink ornaments I bought for her.

"I can't believe you managed to pick out the girliest Christmas decorations there," Morgan comments, reaching for a pink ball ornament.

"Hey! All proceeds went to the Breast Cancer foundation, thank you very much." I smile at him, fake-chucking one at him. He ducks automatically.

Diana makes a peep in her chair. "I think they're pretty," she says, grinning at me. Morgan rolls his eyes.

"Figures," but he winks at me to let us know he's only joking. I think he likes them.

"What do you think, Diana?" I ask her, standing by her chair so I can see the tree from her distance. The tree is probably one of the smallest ones you can find, but it's a beauty. It's cluttered by countless Christmas ornaments and decorations, and lights stream from every available section on the tree. Morgan is spreading silver tinsel all over it now, and it's making me giggle, because he's being such a perfectionist. I look at Diana, and she's beaming at the tree in awe. It makes my heart go soft.

"Where'd the star go?" I ask Morgan. Diana stands up and starts searching for it.

"Oh, that," Morgan says guiltily. "I made it disappear."

Diana chuckles. "Oh God, you've been practicing that Physics Magic again, haven't you?" I say pointedly. His cheeks flush, but then he stands up proudly.

"Don't knock it 'til you've tried it, Darlin'," Morgan says to me.

"You sound like Reid." I say, smiling. Not that that's a bad thing.

Morgan gets a huge grin on his face. I can tell he's pleased. I can tell Diana's proud.

I take a seat on Diana's comfy recliner, which is now nicely heated from her body heat. I relax in the seat, groaning.

"Oooh, ouch," I say, my hand on my stomach.

"Are you alright?" Diana asks me, racing to my side, immediately touching my arm protectively. Morgan damn near drops an ornament in panic.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," I say, wincing. "It's just the baby."

"Is he-" Morgan stops himself, and stares at Diana. I send him a death glare. He shuts up. Diana's face brightens and she cups her hand over her mouth.

"It's a boy?" she nearly cries out.

I guess the secret's out. I rub my growing belly with a bright, eager smile. "Yes," I send Morgan a halfhearted eye roll. "We wanted to wait to tell you, since it's one of the Christmas presents." Morgan laughs.

"Oh my goodness!" she's now putting her hands all over my stomach, gleefully. "Have you thought of a name for him?"

I look at Morgan, and he urges to my side, touching my stomach. Our son kicks at his father's touch. "Actually..." I say. Her eyes begin to water.

* * *

**Author's note: **P.S. Will and her broke up, yes. I was going to go into greater detail, about how Michael cutting him put a strain on their relationship, but I didn't end up doing that. Thank you so much for reading this everyone!


	13. Wrongfully Accused Nomination!

d


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